“They (all day she had been thinking of Bourton, of Peter, of Sally), they would grow old. A thing there was that mattered; a thing, wreathed about with chatter, defaced, obscured in her own life, let drop every day in corruption, lies, chatter. This he had preserved. Death was defiance. Death was an attempt to communicate, people feeling the impossibility of reaching the centre which, mystically, evaded them; closeness drew apart; rapture faded; one was alone. There was an embrace in death.
But this young man who had killed himself—had he plunged holding his treasure? 'If it were now to die, 'twere now to be most happy,'* she had said to herself once, coming down, in white.
Or there were the poets and thinkers.”