Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

Eh? Glasp said. Me? What do you mean?

Oh… such as when we were discussing the Whitechapel murders earlier this evening.

Oh, that's different…

Not entirely. Because I can see certain aspects of myself reflected in the murderer.

Can't you?

No. Anyway, what's that got to do with finishing your book?

All right. I'll try to explain. I ask myself: Why does a man commit a sex crime? I know it's partly sheer weakness… But that doesn't answer it. I read in a newspaper the other day that seventy per cent of the sex crimes in the States are committed by teenagers.

Why is that, do you think?

Glasp shrugged:

Because they've less self-control at that age.

Not only that. Because they think they're going to get more than they really ever get. I once read a case of a youth who was driving a lorry, and passed a girl on a lonely road. He turned the lorry round, knocked her down, and raped her in the back of his lorry.

Then he dumped her body down a well and blew in the well with dynamite. They caught him eventually and electrocuted him.

He paused, to give Glasp a chance to comment. Seeing that Sorme was looking at him, Glasp said:

Well, it served him right, didn't it?

Yes, but that isn't what strikes me about it. What impressed me is the stupidity of it, the waste, the pathos. Try to put yourself in his place… Can you do that?

I expect so.

Supposing he'd got away with it. What would you feel afterwards, looking back on it… even if you weren't afraid of detection? Wouldn't it be the stupid gap between your motive and what you actually got out of it? He sees a desirable girl on a lonely road.

Suddenly, she represents for him all the taboos and frustrations of his adolescence. He feels he ought to be allowed to possess her. You remember how, in Greek mythology, Zeus went around raping everybody — changed himself into a swan, a dove, a bull? He gave his sister Demeter a daughter, then raped the daughter too… Do you see what I mean? Well, he feels just that… the god's prerogative. He revolts against his limitations, he turns the lorry around… But he's not a god, and he lives in a state with laws, and the laws condemn him to death.

Glasp had begun to grin as Sorme talked. He interrupted:

And he's not as intelligent as you seem to think either. Do you think he had any thoughts about Zeus and Leda when he turned his lorry round?

No. I'm trying to get at his feelings, even if he couldn't express them…

I know. But it's not true. He's probably a bloody bull-necked yokel who thinks of nothing but how many women he can screw behind the dance hall on a Saturday night.

When he rapes the girl, he doesn't feel any pity for knocking her down. He doesn't feel that, if he'd really wanted her, he could easily have made her acquaintance and seduced her without killing her. Her life doesn't mean anything to him, or the feelings of her family. It's all that balanced against one stupid lust, and he lets the lust win. Can you feel any sympathy after that?

I agree; you're right. But it's still not the whole truth. Listen to me. One day I was cycling along the Embankment when I saw a girl and a soldier looking at the river. It was a windy day, and suddenly her dress blew right over her head. And I tell you, I experienced a sensation like a kick in the stomach. For weeks afterwards, I got into a fever every time I thought of it.

Glasp interrupted: Sounds like ordinary sexual frustration!

I know. But what would have satisfied it? I suppose, if the girl had been alone, I might have made her acquaintance. I might have finally persuaded her to come to bed.

But that wouldn't satisfy it. It's something far more violent and instantaneous than a desire for an affair. It's a sudden longing for far more freedom than we possess. It's an insight into freedom — that's the reason it's so overpowering. What's more, it hasn't much to do with ordinary lust. I once had a girl friend… when I lived in a basement off the Marylebone Road. Well, one Sunday I made love to her more times than I would have thought possible — until I felt like a wet dish rag. I got a feeling that I'd never want a woman again in all my life, that I'd emptied myself completely. Then I walked out of my front door to get the milk, and a girl came walking past overhead in a wide skirt that swayed open and showed me her legs and thighs. And, you know, I could have carried her off to bed whooping! I was astonished to realise that I hadn't exhausted my desire. I'd just exhausted my desire for a particular girl. My appetite for women generally was untouched.

Glasp was frowning. He had not touched his wine since Sorme refilled the glass.

He said:

I don't understand what you're trying to prove. I don't see what you mean about an insight into freedom.

I can't explain easily. But it has that effect. It's a sort of vision of more life. It makes you feel as if you've been robbed of the powers of a god. It's as if we are gods, as if we're really free, but no one realises it. And it comes back to us occasionally through sex.

Glasp murmured: D. H. Lawrence and all that.

No, not just that. It's not just the sexual orgasm that counts. I've got a friend — a journalist — who's as indefatigable as Casanova at trying to seduce women. But he doesn't actually enjoy going to bed with them. That part bores him. He just needs to feel the conquest, to feel that he can go to bed if he wants to. I can't explain it… but I feel as if we ought to be gods, as if the freedom of the gods ought to belong to us naturally, but something's taken it away.

Glasp said, smiling: You'll make a good Catholic yet.

I doubt it. I just feel that our slavery to sex is just a need to regain something that is naturally ours. It would be an internal condition of tremendous intensity. There wouldn't be any more sex crime then. It'd be a state of such inner power that other people would be superfluous. The need for a woman is only the need to regain that intensity for a moment…

Glasp held up his hand to silence him. Sorme asked:

What is it?

Someone calling, Glasp said.

Sorme got up and went to the door. He heard the girl's voice shouting:

Telephone! Mr Sorme.

He called: Thank you.

He hurried downstairs, experiencing the warm sense of well-being that came from food and wine. The receiver was on the hall table. He said:

Hello?

Gerard? This is Austin.

Hello, Austin! How are you?

Very well, thanks. What are you doing now?

I've just finished supper…

Are you free?

No. Oliver Glasp's here.

Oh…

Sorme could heard the disappointment in his voice. Wondering if it was dislike of Glasp, he asked:

What is it?

Nothing. When is he going?

Oh… in a couple of hours. He's only just arrived.

Oh.

Why? Did you want me to come over?

Well, I did, rather. Can't you get rid of him?

Not really. Not without being impolite. You know how touchy he is. Is it anything important?

No. I'd just like to see you. Could you come in a couple of hours?

Sorme said, sighing:

No, Austin. I'm dog-tired, and I've been falling asleep all day. When he goes I want to sleep.

I won't keep you up all night, I promise.

On the point of yielding, Sorme thought of the prospect of getting to Albany

Street, and felt a sudden certainty that he didn't want to go. He said:

It's not that. I'm really fagged out. I wouldn't be good company if I came.

Nunne said, with scarcely concealed irritation:

Oh, all right!

Let's make it tomorrow, or some time.

I'll ring you again.

The line went dead. Sorme hung on for a moment, wondering if they had been cut off. He replaced the phone, and returned upstairs. He said:

That was Austin.