To the Dark Tower Read Online Free PDF

sexes! Nonsense!
Of this letter the General wrote in his Diary:
    Certainly! There is no equality of the sexes. Thus far I agree with S. N. G. But when he talks of men lacking the Christian virtues, then I say, "Thank God!" This does not seem a deficiency to me: rather it is the glory of our sex. I hate these Christian virtues which S. N. G. talks about. They are fit only for women. Why do men covet them?
April 22nd , 1937
    Judith has been out to a dance with the cadet we met in the cove. I ask her when she is going to see him again. She blushes: "Never—I hope."
    "Good heavens! ...What’s happened? Have you had a quarrel?"
    "No. I think he’s rather a cad, that’s all."
    She won’t be more explicit. But one guesses. She reminds me of her mother in this. And Judith, too, will be passionate once she overcomes her revulsion.
May 2nd , 1937
    The disturbance still goes on—ever since that letter from Miss Forsdike. I seem to be losing self-discipline. I say, ‘I will not think of this’: and then my mind reverts. ‘If I have this power... Shouldn’t I use it? Am I not destined to be a leader? etc., etc.’
    I am trying to curb my ambition, In every way I try to humble myself. I have refused the invitation to lecture at Oxford, the presidency of two societies, birthday honours. This sort of renunciation is the proof of merit. It is better than the achievement.
    How I sympathise with Lawrence, hiding away in the Air Force! It is self-discipline that counts. But we are in a dilemma. Each renunciation of power brings power. The more we humble ourselves the more others respect us. There is no escape from our destinies. Our ambition works through each relinquishment of ambition. That is the tragedy...
May 5th , 1937
    When I go down to the cove this morning, who should I see reading under the shadow of a rock but the analytical friend of the cadet—alone! He is still in the alpaca coat, and he reclines in exactly the same way, humped forward, head tilted on to his shoulder. I greet him with a mixture of repugnance, affection, and surprise. But he looks up calmly, slipping an envelope between the pages of his book to mark the place. "Hullo."
    I feel rather foolish at this drawled greeting. "I didn’t expect you here so soon. It’s only a few months since you went. They give you good holidays."
    "I’ve left."
    "Left the bank?"
    He turns over on to his stomach, and then looks sideways up at me. "Yes. I’ve saved twenty pounds. That will keep me for about six weeks. By that time I hope to have finished my book."
    "Was that why you left—to finish it?"
    "Partly. I’d got stuck. In any case, I doubt if I could ever produce anything worthwhile if I stayed on."
    "Are you staying with your friend—the cadet?"
    He gives me an odd smile, knowing, almost patronizing. "No. He’s away. Didn’t you know?"
    "I haven’t seen him for months." It is as though I want to defend myself. Hurriedly I ask: "Where are you staying?"
    "I have a room the other side of the river."
    "And you decided this was the best place to write in?"
    "I came here to study my subject."
    "Your subject?"
    "The subject of my novel. I felt I was losing its essence. It was leaking away. So I came here to recapture it—to get its full force, so to speak." He rises to his feet, stretching, yawning, and moves away. "And now I must go."
    "Good-bye."
    "Good-bye."
    He slouches as he walks, his book under his arm. He is still smiling.
    I feel vaguely uneasy. I am used to summing people up: but I can’t do it with him. Each time I meet him it is as if I were exploring a different level of his character. But there is nothing to grasp. He is everything—and nothing...
May 6th , 1937
    The analytical friend is called Frank Cauldwell. At first he takes no notice of me. But then he puts down his book suddenly and begins asking questions. Not even amusement behind the glasses. Impossible to tell what he is thinking. But I answer him as best I can.
    At last, rather crossly: "You