Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Francis Yeats-Brown says:

"Those nights I lay on a sofa with him, couché a gauche, as opium–smokers say, weaving a tissue of deceit into the grey–white clouds encircling us, will always remain among the strangest memories of my life. The couches, the medley of cushions, the pipes, the profile of my host as he leaned over the green glimmer of the lamp which burned for the god to whom his heart was given, and the growth of that god in him, as pipe followed pipe; and the beatitude in his eyes when they found the dream–world where the princes of the poppies reign, seem no more part of me now than a play, yet I did and felt and saw many unaccustomed things during that month of make–believe. And instead of reading philosophy or playing chess, I was engaged in a game whose sake was liberty"

From The Long Descent of Wasted Days in The Lives of a Bengal Lancer (1930)

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