human
I forget you haven't a sculptor's mind. I am so constituted that, with me, all impressions are immediately translated into the sense of form. I do not hear music; I see it rise with domes and spires, with painted windows and Arabesques. The scent of the rose is to me tangible. I can almost feel it with my hand. So your prose suggested to me, by its rhythmic flow, something which, at first indefinite, crystallised finally into my lost conception of Narcissus.
gpt
It is extraordinary, murmured Reginald.
human
I had not dreamed of it.
gpt
So you do not think it rather fantastic?
human
No, it is quite possible. Perhaps his Narcissus was engaging the sub-conscious strata of my mind while I was writing this passage. And surely it would be strange if the undercurrents of our mind were not reflected in our style.
gpt
Do you mean, then, that a subtle psychologist ought to be able to read beneath and between our lines, not only what we express, but also what we leave unexpressed?
human
Undoubtedly.
gpt
Even if, while we are writing, we are unconscious of our state of mind? That would open a new field to psychology.
human
Only to those that have the key, that can read the hidden symbols. It is to me a matter-of-course that every mind-movement below or above the threshold of consciousness must, of a necessity, leave its imprint faintly or clearly, as the case may be, upon our activities.
gpt
This may explain why books that seem intolerably dull to the majority, delight the hearts of the few,
human
Yes, to the few that possess the key. I distinctly remember how an uncle of mine once laid down a discussion on higher mathematics and blushed fearfully when his innocent wife looked over his shoulder. The man who had written it was a roué.
gpt
Then the seemingly most harmless books may secretly possess the power of scattering in young minds the seed of corruption,
human
If they happen to understand, Clarke observed thoughtfully.
gpt
I can very well conceive of a lecherous text-book of the calculus, or of a reporter's story of a picnic in which burnt, under the surface, undiscoverable, save to the initiate, the tragic passion of Tristram and Iseult.