The train came, and they went on board, sitting on either side a little
table, by the window, in the restaurant car. Birkin glanced over his
paper, then looked up at Gerald, who was waiting for him.
'I believe the man means it,' he said, 'as far as he means anything.'
'And do you think it's true? Do you think we really want a new gospel?'
asked Gerald.
Birkin shrugged his shoulders.
'I think the people who say they want a new religion are the last to
accept anything new. They want novelty right enough. But to stare
straight at this life that we've brought upon ourselves, and reject it,
absolutely smash up the old idols of ourselves, that we sh'll never do.
You've got very badly to want to get rid of the old, before anything
new will appear--even in the self.'
Gerald watched him closely.
'You think we ought to break up this life, just start and let fly?' he
asked.
'This life. Yes I do. We've got to bust it completely, or shrivel
inside it, as in a tight skin. For it won't expand any more.
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