This approach of
life I was conscious of--then dismal failure. There was no fulfillment.
Nothing happened.
And so, through this singular mood, I came a little nearer to understand
the unpure thing that had stammered out into expression through my
sister's talent. For the unpure is merely negative; it has no existence;
it is but the cramped expression of what is true, stammering its way
brokenly over false boundaries that seek to limit and confine. Great,
full expression of anything is pure, whereas here was only the
incomplete, unfinished, and therefore ugly. There was a strife and pain
and desire to escape. I found myself shrinking from house and grounds as
one shrinks from the touch of the mentally arrested, those in whom life
has turned awry. There was almost mutilation in it.
Past items, too, now flocked to confirm this feeling that I walked,
liberty captured and half-maimed, in a monstrous garden. I remembered
days of rain that refreshed the countryside, but left these grounds,
cracked with the summer heat, unsatisfied and thirsty; and how the big
winds, that cleaned the woods and fields elsewhere, crawled here with
difficulty through the dense foliage that protected The Towers from the
North and West and East.
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