Down Among the Gods Read Online Free
take it. Which is why, in the past, he has attracted Hera to himself, again and again and again.
Jessie looks away, hoping that she doesn’t appear as flustered as she feels. Patrick covers a momentary confusion by going over some lines with his pencil but it’s a while before he is able to concentrate again on his drawing. They have both been abruptly besieged by an inner conflict which neither of them is able to understand. For the rest of the class they are acutely aware of each other but each carefully avoids meeting the other’s eyes. When the model finally relaxes and gets dressed, Patrick’s attention is taken by the teacher who is full of enthusiasm and encouragement. Patrick is flattered. He is beginning to believe that his creative faculty might be intact.
Why shouldn’t it be? Every human being is potentially a genius. But anyone with creative aspirations needs to be aware that Dionysus is a brilliant mimic, and one of the best impressions he does is that of the muse. He will serve the imaginative individual up to a point, but the gods are not handmaidens to humanity. The time inevitably comes when they cease to serve and demand to be served instead.
The drawings on Patrick’s board are good, without doubt. But the creative impulses, the ideas and enthusiasms which are at present passing through his mind are mirages. They, like so many before them, will vanish before he can reach them.
The teacher issues a general invitation to the class to meet in the Red Lion for a drink. Patrick agrees readily and, without thinking, looks around to see if Jessie is coming. But she has already gone. The drawing that she did of the model wearing his hat is just visible among the crumpled papers she has thrown into the bin. The sight of it gives him a slight jolt and he turns back to the bustle of the class, packing away. Carefully, he rolls up his own drawings and tucks them under his arm.
As he walks down to the pub, the sky is as dark as a city sky can be, and a light fog blurs the edges of the buildings. The trees in Griffon Square are beginning to drop soft scatterings of autumn leaves on to the pavement. It is the kind of evening that Patrick loves, mysterious and calm, as though awaiting the arrival of drama. He remembers Jessie’s face clearly and that strange, ambivalent meeting of their eyes. It remains with him along with the general excitement of renewed possibilities as he scuffs through the fresh leaves.
But by the bottom of the first pint he has forgotten her.
It is late when he gets home from the Red Lion. He has no car and no money for a taxi so he has to walk. For a while he had a bicycle and he remembers that time as being pretty much perfect. But the bicycle was, inevitably, stolen and he hasn’t been able to get the money together for another one. He will, sooner or later. Just as he will, sooner or later, find the impetus to break free from King’s Cross.
The house where Patrick lives is on a main thoroughfare where three lanes of one-way traffic pass almost continuously.
There are stairs down to his basement flat and something rustles among the rubbish bags that he keeps forgetting to bring up to the street for the dustmen. He pauses on the steps. Two heavy lorries rumble past, and in the relative silence that follows Patrick is aware of a sense of anxiety as he goes on down and fits the key into the door. For some reason that he cannot understand, the flat has begun to feel menacing to him in recent months. He doesn’t believe in ghosts or evil spirits but it seems to him that the flat is inhabited by some sort of malign presence which constantly threatens his peace of mind. Reason, Patrick’s defence against anything unknown, is becoming increasingly powerless to protect him.
He passes quickly through the hall and into the larger of his two rooms, which is where he sleeps and occasionally cooks. The darkness is solid after the street lights, but not as empty as it ought to be. Patrick
Jessie looks away, hoping that she doesn’t appear as flustered as she feels. Patrick covers a momentary confusion by going over some lines with his pencil but it’s a while before he is able to concentrate again on his drawing. They have both been abruptly besieged by an inner conflict which neither of them is able to understand. For the rest of the class they are acutely aware of each other but each carefully avoids meeting the other’s eyes. When the model finally relaxes and gets dressed, Patrick’s attention is taken by the teacher who is full of enthusiasm and encouragement. Patrick is flattered. He is beginning to believe that his creative faculty might be intact.
Why shouldn’t it be? Every human being is potentially a genius. But anyone with creative aspirations needs to be aware that Dionysus is a brilliant mimic, and one of the best impressions he does is that of the muse. He will serve the imaginative individual up to a point, but the gods are not handmaidens to humanity. The time inevitably comes when they cease to serve and demand to be served instead.
The drawings on Patrick’s board are good, without doubt. But the creative impulses, the ideas and enthusiasms which are at present passing through his mind are mirages. They, like so many before them, will vanish before he can reach them.
The teacher issues a general invitation to the class to meet in the Red Lion for a drink. Patrick agrees readily and, without thinking, looks around to see if Jessie is coming. But she has already gone. The drawing that she did of the model wearing his hat is just visible among the crumpled papers she has thrown into the bin. The sight of it gives him a slight jolt and he turns back to the bustle of the class, packing away. Carefully, he rolls up his own drawings and tucks them under his arm.
As he walks down to the pub, the sky is as dark as a city sky can be, and a light fog blurs the edges of the buildings. The trees in Griffon Square are beginning to drop soft scatterings of autumn leaves on to the pavement. It is the kind of evening that Patrick loves, mysterious and calm, as though awaiting the arrival of drama. He remembers Jessie’s face clearly and that strange, ambivalent meeting of their eyes. It remains with him along with the general excitement of renewed possibilities as he scuffs through the fresh leaves.
But by the bottom of the first pint he has forgotten her.
It is late when he gets home from the Red Lion. He has no car and no money for a taxi so he has to walk. For a while he had a bicycle and he remembers that time as being pretty much perfect. But the bicycle was, inevitably, stolen and he hasn’t been able to get the money together for another one. He will, sooner or later. Just as he will, sooner or later, find the impetus to break free from King’s Cross.
The house where Patrick lives is on a main thoroughfare where three lanes of one-way traffic pass almost continuously.
There are stairs down to his basement flat and something rustles among the rubbish bags that he keeps forgetting to bring up to the street for the dustmen. He pauses on the steps. Two heavy lorries rumble past, and in the relative silence that follows Patrick is aware of a sense of anxiety as he goes on down and fits the key into the door. For some reason that he cannot understand, the flat has begun to feel menacing to him in recent months. He doesn’t believe in ghosts or evil spirits but it seems to him that the flat is inhabited by some sort of malign presence which constantly threatens his peace of mind. Reason, Patrick’s defence against anything unknown, is becoming increasingly powerless to protect him.
He passes quickly through the hall and into the larger of his two rooms, which is where he sleeps and occasionally cooks. The darkness is solid after the street lights, but not as empty as it ought to be. Patrick
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