It was a vast weltering world, and at last
I had a sort of leadership against the Gang--you know it was called
the Gang--a sort of compromise of scoundrelly projects and base
ambitions and vast public emotional stupidities and catchwords--
the Gang that kept the world noisy and blind year by year, and all
the while that it was drifting, drifting towards infinite disaster.
But I can't expect you to understand the shades and complications
of the year--the year something or other ahead. I had it all down
to the smallest details--in my dream. I suppose I had been dreaming
of it before I awoke, and the fading outline of some queer new
development I had imagined still hung about me as I rubbed my eyes.
It was some grubby affair that made me thank God for the sunlight.
I sat up on the couch and remained looking at the woman and rejoicing--
rejoicing that I had come away out of all that tumult and folly
and violence before it was too late. After all, I thought, this
is life--love and beauty, desire and delight, are they not worth
all those dismal struggles for vague, gigantic ends? And I blamed
myself for having ever sought to be a leader when I might have
given my days to love.
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