— But nobody's ever physically proved that the earth is in motion.
— Einstein says he can't believe God plays dice with the universe.
— Well I have a friend who's a physicist, he's been converted. He writes songs now.
— Claims he's a serious musician. Be-bop, if you call that music.
— Just so what she writes rhymes, she calls it poetry.
— One of them goes, "With the Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost and you-hoo-ho-hoo, What wonders the five of us could do. ."
— Painting like she was having an orgasm, if you call that art.
— If you call this living. .
— If you call that love. .?
Sounds echoing, not from the vibrant reaches of the jungle, but the jungle floor itself, constrictions in the peat bog, the specimens themselves in motion: —I feel like we've been here for simply ages, said the tall woman. — I feel like 1 was born here, murmured Maude. But neither plaint nor query sounded in their voices, and neither made a move to go. Those who had disappeared were gone silently, leaving only faint traces or none on their minute contributions to the origin of species: the others remained with the tenacity of creatures bound to work out natural laws of survival, thus prove the superiority of their various equipment in adapting to conditions which no memory was long enough to find anything but nature.
The dark poet reared his head with reptilian vigilance, looking from the dead orchid to Herschel, who had just come from the bathroom and posed, flourishing, in the door, an unfamiliar bloom sprung from the jungle floor, watched by these resentful close-focused eyes, turned away, at that moment, to a sound and flutter across the room, where the Duchess of Ohio soared on an outburst of tittering. The critic approached, moving with the steps of one in a familiar medium, disdaining claims of time past and future, both contained in this limicolous present.
— They're moving Father's grave. . Mr. Crotcher sang, sunk in the armchair, indifferent as the oyster which, despite the evolutionary excursions going on above, has found no reason to change in two hundred million years. While all around, less abiding varieties kept in motion, as though this might in itself be proof against time. Arny Munk's head lolled in several directions, its sensory equipment unnecessary for he was being led by Sonny Byron whose tender voice belied the firm grip of his hand. — Come along, baby, be sweet, just for a minute, she'll never miss you. . And they passed under the eyes of the Paleozoic poet, glittering open from features whose prehistoric simplicity was faintly shadowed with apprehension at the sight of the opportune mutations going on around him, denying, by their very existence, the finality of his old-world wisdom, and suggesting, as they took to the air manipulating the baubles so helplessly evolved with a pretense of having designed them themselves, that perhaps, for all his belligerent cooperation with environment, that environment itself was changing, and not only he, but the entire species upon which he depended while living, and rescue from anonymity, perpetuation afterward, was to become part of the sodden floor, and the mat, and finally only traces on the crust itself.
— Derive venereal, and see what you get, if you don't call that decay, said someone near the hunched critic, who turned away, looked down at his large hands, and shrugged.
Beyond, like some creature opportunely equipped to cope with situations which have not yet arisen or, indeed, even been suggested, Mr. Feddle scooted up a tier of shelved books, beyond the reaches of hagfish and lamprey, and other jawless progenitors babbling in apparent contentment below. From the surface there, the critic watched him, bringing up a hand to smooth his hair and for that moment betray the size of his head. His expression was as simple as resentment without understanding can be: now like plesiosaurus laboring all four limbs for the paddles they were, lifting a small head to see pterodactyl raise its absurd body on more absurd wings and with cumbrous scaling gain the sky, a ridiculous place to be, certainly, but for that moment he watched, disconcerting to plesiosaurus, to whom no such extravagance had ever occurred and who, by no feat of skill or imagination, could hope to accomplish it now.
— As for your Emerson. .! someone said: and indeed, there were those to satisfy that eclectic digger too, gliding not to eat, nor for love, but only gliding.
Esther, advancing, searched the shadows, but the speechless kitten was nowhere to be seen. Then looking for Ellery she raised her eyes, but their light remained untenanted until Benny's flickering image filled them, and he asked with forced cheer, — Have you seen a little blond number named Adeline?
Several people turned to see Mr. Feddle fall clattering to the floor; and in keeping with that refusal to be ruffled by disturbances, which they called good breeding, no one offered to help him up. For even those present who considered good breeding a pretension affected by a class they were vocationally in revolt against, substituting for it an obtuseness which they called honesty, watched with honest laughter.
— My dear, it's been lovely, the tall woman said to Esther. — I do wish I could give parties like this, but my husband. . With one hand she was attempting to dislodge her husband from the shoal of furniture, where his hapteric glass anchored him. — But you're not upset? You have to learn to be philosophical about those things, my dear, just don't think about them. Now I have a real problem, just look at my furpiece. . well it is insured, thank God. I spoke to him about it but I honestly don't believe he understands English. I can't repeat what he said to me. There is something almost prehistoric about him, wouldn't you say?. . something almost attractive. . wouldn't you say?
The furpiece had, in fact, lost the quality of being an assumed decoration. Nature's hand (which we are now assured is experimentally inclined) might have worked here to produce one of those severe mutations which (so Science goes on assuring us) are opportune, chancy arrangements with no particular purpose, included in the calculated risk of being born. Nonetheless, Anselm wiped his nose on a mink tail as casually as though the thing had grown there for that purpose. But his expression retained a livid suspension, as the lower lip was held sharply under an uneven yellow line of teeth. He was watching Stanley. From Rose's darkness came men's voices borne on music, Judas Maccabaeus. On one hand, Chavenet turned out to be the man who had first proved that the eye which forms the image could not possibly have worked until after it was complete. Seated on the other, that xenophobic accessory to monosyllabic criteria in honest writing, overheard the word hapteron from above, and swore. Anselm watched Stanley. And behind him, Don Bildow approached mustering as vengeful an expression as plastic rims would allow.
— There must be some place to hide for people who make mistakes, Agnes Deigh said holding Stanley's hand in both hers. She was staring there, where Mickey Mouse semaphored annul with yellow mittens. — It can't be that early, she murmured.
— But Agnes, the Church. .
— That glass, the full one, could you hand it to me? she asked him then, looking up.
He did, hesitatingly, — But don't you think, for your own good?
— Isn't it when we make mistakes that we need love most? she said abruptly. She'd raised the glass in a quivering hand but did not drink, waiting.
— Yes but, he answered unsteadily, pretending not to see Anselm's approach as his voice picked up. — But not finite love that's as weak as we are, not just that, not. .
— Stanley, she interrupted firmly, though her voice was faint. — I'm sorry. I'm sorry now for. . about what I said to you that night, that night when you ran away Stanley, it was my fault, I shouldn't have said that to you, should I… He waited for her to go on, unable to answer. — It… I… I didn't know, Stanley. I didn't know you didn't want to hear it, God knows I do, I mean… I thought we all did, I thought it was all anyone wanted, to hear that. .