<T Bliss><Y 1920><P 111>
Although Bertha Young was thirty she still had
moments like this when she wanted to run instead of
walk, to take dancing steps on and off the pavement, to bowl a
hoop, to throw something up in the air and catch it again, or
to stand still and laugh at - nothing - at nothing, simply.
What can you do if you are thirty and, turning the corner
of your own street, you are overcome, suddenly, by a feeling
of bliss - absolute bliss! - as though you'd suddenly swallowed
a bright piece of that late afternoon sun and it burned in your
bosom, sending out a little shower of sparks into every particle,
into every finger and toe?...
Oh, is there no way you can express it without being "drunk
and disorderly"? How idiotic civilisation is. Why be given
a body if you have to keep it shut up in a case like a rare, rare
"No, that about the fiddle is not quite what I mean," she
thought, running up the steps and feeling in her bag for the
key - she'd forgotten it, . . .