'Of course,' said Gudrun, 'life doesn't REALLY matter--it is one's art
which is central. What one does in one's life has PEU DE RAPPORT, it
doesn't signify much.'
'Yes, that is so, exactly,' replied the sculptor. 'What one does in
one's art, that is the breath of one's being. What one does in one's
life, that is a bagatelle for the outsiders to fuss about.'
It was curious what a sense of elation and freedom Gudrun found in this
communication. She felt established for ever. Of course Gerald was
BAGATELLE. Love was one of the temporal things in her life, except in
so far as she was an artist. She thought of Cleopatra--Cleopatra must
have been an artist; she reaped the essential from a man, she harvested
the ultimate sensation, and threw away the husk; and Mary Stuart, and
the great Rachel, panting with her lovers after the theatre, these were
the exoteric exponents of love. After all, what was the lover but fuel
for the transport of this subtle knowledge, for a female art, the art
of pure, perfect knowledge in sensuous understanding.
Pages:
905
906
907
908
909
910
911
912
913
914
915
916
917
918
919
920
921
922
923
924
925
926
927
928
929