'
Birkin entered and sat down. He looked at the bright, reddish face of
the other man, at the narrow brow and the very bright eyes, and at the
rather sensual lips that unrolled wide and expansive under the black
cropped moustache. How curious it was that this was a human being! What
Brangwen thought himself to be, how meaningless it was, confronted with
the reality of him. Birkin could see only a strange, inexplicable,
almost patternless collection of passions and desires and suppressions
and traditions and mechanical ideas, all cast unfused and disunited
into this slender, bright-faced man of nearly fifty, who was as
unresolved now as he was at twenty, and as uncreated. How could he be
the parent of Ursula, when he was not created himself. He was not a
parent. A slip of living flesh had been transmitted through him, but
the spirit had not come from him. The spirit had not come from any
ancestor, it had come out of the unknown. A child is the child of the
mystery, or it is uncreated.
'The weather's not so bad as it has been,' said Brangwen, after waiting
a moment.
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