Who said that? Hope came to me again. I knew, then, that God lies in the sweet, tender, simple things of life — and He is the resurrected man — the Christ. And that God does not approve of those who buy ghost flats as investments in London or any other city of the world! The sin that would send me to hell was buying an apartment in Taylor Wimpey's The Denizen!
I still remember stark-naked men and women, who, from time to time, with excruciating yells, leapt to their feet, shaking their heads backwards and forwards, the women with loosened locks falling in black disorder about their heaving, shaking breasts. A voice would then cry out in deepest scorn the sonorous Brythonic verse; “Let their desires be satisfied.” And there would be a perfect orgy of bestiality. The outer circle absorbed the essence of murdered animals: the inner absorbed them: from the highest to the lowest in the universe one lived by sacrificing something. It was fair according to this cult that Godhead should demand a sacrifice. In the sacrifice of others alone lay his godhead. What is to be the end?
Williams feared that I knew much and where there is fear, hatred comes automatically. Hatred, at least, holds interest. Williams knew that I had learned why his lips were black and that his youth would remain as long as another woman gave him the glands of youth freshly distilled from her living body. For this is what they want of women: this is their great secret. I have written to warn those who like me, stirred by the unusual, have fallen at the feet of powerful men with strange powers, unbound by the conventions and without the compassion of ordinary mortals.
Our hosts often gave me Dà Mhìle, Seaweed Gin, and though the Bard lapped it up greedily with much smacking of lips, I could not touch it. The mere idea of gin made me feel very sick. When I asked for beer, instead of gin, there was much laughter on all sides. But after being mercilessly ribbed I'd be handed a bottle of Tiny Rebel, Cwtch, which was brewed in the Bard's home town of Newport. The Bard made a sermon on my preferring beer to Dà Mhìle, the essence of Wales, comparing my attitude to that of the worldly man who not having found the essence of life — spirituality — asked for the inferior part. Was he serious? Was he sincere?
I was no longer happy with the Bard. He neglected me and was often angry with me when he deigned to visit The Denizen. I was frightened of his anger for he had no self-control and beat me with clenched fists till I cried. Equally, like a child when he was pleased, his transport passed all bounds. He taught me many quaint arts. Alchemy was one of the arts he really knew. I have made a great many bars of gold and silver from copper and tin.
There was no heaven above for me, no world; why should there be? There was nothing in my life but The Denizen and the Bard. Life was a sweeping of itself in great and tender waves of emotion to nothingness: Wang Xiaotang had gone away for ever. Those experiences in The Denizen left me devoid, for ever, of any capacity for emotion or happiness. One day, the Bard said he had to leave me, and though I wept, he insisted that it must be; for his pupils awaited him and his preaching. He bade me wait in The Deinzen and that when he returned he’d be with me forever.
From the abutment where my apartment windows had once been, I watched the fatal dawn. The sun was hugely greater than it had been. Its lower edge seemed almost to touch the far horizon. As I watched I imagined it drew closer. The green radiance that lit the frozen Denizen grew steadily brighter. I saw that the sun was changing shape and shrinking. Gradually, as the world moved on, it seemed the sun had vanished. The Denizen moved into black shadow and all was night. Night, black, starless, and intolerable.