The Rock Pool

by Cyril Connolly

And after all—why should he
write it? It is part of the happiness of youth that
the sense of power, like the mystical apprehension
of goodness, can be enjoyed to the full without the
necessity of projecting it into the tainted realm of
action. As with those public-school men who
advertise in the newspapers: ‘Go anywhere. Do
anything,’ the formula does justice for both will
and deed. This conviction of intense disponibilite
is known as promise and whom the gods wish to
destroy they first call promising.
‘Oh. Ah. Yes.’
Jimmy did not pay much attention to the spurts
and silences of N aylor’s explanation. It appeared
he too was writing a book. ‘just a sensible little
thing about myself. It’s called "Ah, me! The
Mallows" I think you’ll like it. It begins: “There
are only two poisons: success and failure. I prefer
the alkaline”. ’ He tittered expectantly. Evidently
the book had begun like that before. He ended
by asking Naylor to tea the next day, at Eddie’s-
from-the-top. ‘I see you’re a boy after my own
heart, effete, noctambulous, perfervid. After tea
you will come and see my books ——all the literature
of detumescence, and who knows, we may have
supper in some delicious night-box!’
and
With the silvery heave of a dolphin out of the
water, the force, the beauty of the present moment
seemed to flash into something almost visible and
then sink back into the natural current of the
afternoon.
and
He felt old and miserable, going through life
trying to peddle a personality of which people
would not even accept a free sample. He remem-
bered the parties he had frequented in London.
F iddling about with the bookshelves or the plates
of biscuits while everybody turned their back or
seemed to recognize him only at the last possible
moment. There are times when the fear of
life is greater than the fear of death, when the
remaining years, forty or fifty of them, stretch
out ahead like the steps of an infinitely tiring stair-
case. Sonia took one look at his long empty face.
She felt for the first time the proximity of some
ancient enemy of youth and spirit, and moved
quietly away.
and
Whew! He remembered their friendship at
school. They had sat next each other and held
hands over a copy of Latin verses.
‘Little brown brother, little brown brother,
Are you awake in the dark?
Here we lie cosily close to each other,
Hark to the song of the lark! ’ _
a
(Ecce carmen
It had given them a sentimental erotic thrill,
though from the rest of the poem it had turned
out to be a potato talking.