is sub-conscious, and 'pain' is its sigh at the tragedy. So with all pain--greater, the greater the loss. The hugest of losses is, of course, the loss of Time. If you lose that, any of it, you plunge at once into the transcendentalisms, the infinitudes, of Loss; if you lose all of it--"
"But you so wildly exaggerate! Ha! ha! You rant, I tell you, of commonplaces with the woe--"
"Hell is where a clear, untrammelled Spirit is sub-conscious of lost Time; where it boils and writhes with envy of the living world; hating it for ever, and all the sons of Life!"
"But curb yourself! Drink--I implore--I implore--for God's sake--but once--"
"To hasten to the snare--that is woe! to drive your ship upon the light/mouse rock--that is Marah! To wake, and feel it irrevocably true that you went after her--and the dead were there--and her guests were in the depths of hell--and you did not know it!--though you might have.
Look out upon the houses of the city this dawning day: not one, I tell y
Xelucha is Matthew Phipps Shiel's (1865 – 1947) somewhat unsuccessful attempt to compose a Poe-type pastiche. The plot is either a ghost story or the narrator's descent into madness or the unfruitful search for the feminine ideal in a nihilistic, decadent world.
Or maybe all three.
Whatever, make sure you have a dictionary and an encyclopedia on hand as the story is not so much linguistically gifted as much as it is simply verbose.
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