24 The Diary of a Drug Fiend
conscious of all that was going on around her, absolute
mistress of herself and of her environment; yet at
the same time she was lost in some unearthly form of
rapture of a kind which, while essentially unintelligible
to me, reminded me of certain strange and fragmentary
experiences that I had had while flying.
I suppose every one has read The Psychology of Flying
by L. de Giberne Sieveking. All I need do is to remind
you of what he says :— |
‘* All types of men who fly are conscious of this very
obscure, subtle difference that it has wrought in them.
Very few know exactly what it is. Hardly any of them
can express what they feel. And none of them would
admit it if they could. . . . One realises without any
formation into words how that one is oneself, and that
each one is entirely separate and can never enter into
the recesses of another, which are his foundation of
individual life.”
One feels oneself out of all relation with things, even
the most essential. And yet one is aware at the same
time that everything of which one has ever been aware
_is a picture invented by one’s own mind. The Universe
is the looking-glass of the soul.
In that state one understands all sorts of non-
sense.
“© Thou foursquare Crown of Nothing, that
_ Circlest the destruction of Worlds! I adore Thee,
' Evoe! I adore Thee,I A O!”
I flushed with rage, understanding enough to know
what Lou must be feeling as she rolled forth those
passionate, senseless words from her volcanic mouth.
Gretel’s suggestion trickled into my brain.
“This beastly alcohol brutalises men. Why is Lou
so superb? She has breathed the pure snow of Heaven
into her nostrils.”
**O Thou snow-white chalice of Love, that art