' He went on a few paces, staring ahead, his eyes
fixed, looking like a mask used in ghastly religions of the barbarians.
'It blasts your soul's eye,' he said, 'and leaves you sightless. Yet
you WANT to be sightless, you WANT to be blasted, you don't want it any
different.'
He was speaking as if in a trance, verbal and blank. Then suddenly he
braced himself up with a kind of rhapsody, and looked at Birkin with
vindictive, cowed eyes, saying:
'Do you know what it is to suffer when you are with a woman? She's so
beautiful, so perfect, you find her SO GOOD, it tears you like a silk,
and every stroke and bit cuts hot--ha, that perfection, when you blast
yourself, you blast yourself! And then--' he stopped on the snow and
suddenly opened his clenched hands--'it's nothing--your brain might
have gone charred as rags--and--' he looked round into the air with a
queer histrionic movement 'it's blasting--you understand what I
mean--it is a great experience, something final--and then--you're
shrivelled as if struck by electricity.
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