Jesteśmy społecznością, która kocha książki

The Christopher who sat in that taxi is, practically speaking, dead; he only remains reflected in the fading memories of us who knew him. I can't revitalize him now. I can only reconstruct him from his remembered acts and words and from the writings he has left us. He embarrasses me often, and so I'm tempted to sneer at him; but I will try not to. I'll try not to apologize for him, either. After all, I owe him some respect. In a sense he is my Father, and in another sense my Son.

Down There" refers to that nether world within the individual which is the place of loneliness, alienation and hatred. This novel in four episodes describes characters shut up inside private hells of their own making, self-dedicated to a lifelong feud with The Others. The Author laughs at and with them often - for even hell can be funny - but he is forced to realize that his visits to them are, at the same time, visits to the "Down There" inside himself.

From time to time, Hans and Waldemar sang - those German songs which have a haunting sad-sweetness even when they are most pornographic.

Despair is something horribly simple. And though Mr. Lancaster had been so fond of talking about it, he probably found it absolutely unlike anything he had ever imagined. But, in his case, I hope and believe, it was short-lived. Few of us can bear much pain of this kind and remain conscious. Most of the time, thank goodness, we suffer quite stupidly and unreflectingly, like the animals.

I've never ever made up my mind to kill myself before; I've scarcely even considered it. Because I think it's a madly tiresome thing to do, and the only possible excuse for making such a nuisance of yourself is to wait until you're quite, quite certain you want to. Then you're pretty sure to do it properly. Until yesterday evening, there was always something left to stop me from being certain - some tiny little thing, like feeling curious about a movie we were going to see, or about what I'd eat for dinner, or just what was going to happen next. Well, yesterday, I suddenly found I'd come to the end of all that.

Tell me, Ambrose- when did you recognize me?"
"The moment I saw you at the railway station."
"Then why on earth didn't you say so?"
Oh, I don't know - I wasn't sure you'd want to be reminded-"
"But that's nonsense! Why souldn't I want to be? It was just that I didn't recognize you. It was terribly stupid of me-"
"Oh, I wouldn't say that-" Ambrose had let his cigarette go out. He fumbled rapidly with the matches - it was really shocking, how violently his hands shook - then looked straight at me again and smiled, with touching sweetness: "After all, lovey, I'm dead and you aren't.

All I could say was: he had the wrong kind of body. What was wrong with it? You couldn't say it wasn't goodlooking, lying there in the sunshine, very dark brown and gleaming with oil. And yet it repelled me slightly; it was slender in the wrong way, and somehow too elegant, too wearily sophisticated in its movements - though not to the point of seeming effeminate. Perhaps it had lain too long in the expensive Riviera or Bahamian sun, on the terraces of overweening hotels and villas perched like eagles above the sea; had belonged and yet not belonged to too many people; had been too often valued only for the envy it caused in the hearts of non-possessors. Perhaps it had lost its unself-conscious animal grace in the process of acquiring the negligent-arrogant art of being looked at.