CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN




OF FROU-FROU, AND FRISSON, AND DEATH.





   There is no frisson possible without the element of surprise, that is, of ignorance. AS one assimilates all books, all pictures, all things beautiful, enjoyment increases, but frisson becomes rare. To be blase' is not to be impotent. But after loving say 1500 women it is unlikely that one will often discover a `new sensation'. A man may be most potent when he does find the right woman; which was not so at eighteen, when the rustle of every skirt produced its full physiological effect. Sir Roger Bloxam had many a year of this early stage. It was not only Kitty Williams; it was every landlady's daughter, every skivey, every barmaid. But 'twas all butterfly love once, twice, and thrice, and a new flower caught his fancy. Indeed, he was short with them; a quick-firing gun was he, by Gosh. He grew into a 16-inch gun, a 42-centimetre howitzer. It takes more to load such a gun -- but 'tis not smaller and impotent because you cannot fire it 600 times a minute! Don't be afraid of being blase', darling; you're nearer `death', it's true; but that's because you've finished life, mastered it, put it in your breeches pocket. You've made yourself ready for a higher life by your familiarity with the lower. How dreadful to be always 15 or 25 or 35 or 45! You'd get more bored every day; suicide would soon seem the one way out. Surely by 35 the earnest man who had had all opportunities and lived every minute ofhis time has become one with all possible beauty. Is he likely to discover a new Beethoven at 40? No: he has taken all life in; if he is an artist, he can go on to give it out to others; bar that, his life may be pleasant, but it must be nigh stagnation, as regards new impressions. He must work on his material if grow he would. Once his creative force is spent, he is ready for death; and I cannot see but that death is a logical continuation of life. Not by man's logic, but by nature's, whatever that may be; but be sure, 'tis right, when we understand it. So as the poet says ``Give me passion, give me death!'' For the two are one; and death shall be the orgasm wherein the true ego escapes the man,  -- to spend -- given a suitable menstruum -- in energy in recreating body and mind, like a wanton God adorning himself with flowers and laurels. ``What a serious chapter! And you haven't mentioned the one great consolation to the dying, that we have no evidence of the continued existence of Australia beyond the grave.''