‘… who then came down from the mountain to settle the accounts of his life, a life he would now soon, soon now leave behind, this life beginning to have its revenge, his life taking its revenge upon him; the star that had announced his birth, the Holy Ghost which had given him life, they would not give him peace, they would not let him be, as he cursed the fig tree …
‘… who entered Jerusalem on an ass, the Cross already on his back, always, already on his back, who said, Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s, and unto God the things that are God’s, who turned the tables in the temple, cast out monies from the House of God …
‘… who in the Garden of Gethsemane, in the darkest night of his soul, his soul exceedingly sorrowful, even unto death, who fell on his face and then prayed, prayed and prayed for this cup to pass from him …’
I stop writing, put down my pen. I light a cigarette, get up from my desk and step into the corridor. I stand and smoke at the glass windows, staring down, down and out at the garden of my house, my garden in twilight, my garden in silence: God hears our prayers, but waits.
I turn from the garden, and in the twilight and in the silence, unsteady on my feet again, I return to my desk, my desk and ‘My Christ’ –
‘… from whom the cup would not pass, who found his companions sleeping still, and who knew the hour was at hand …
‘… who was betrayed in the night, betrayed by a kiss, from a suicide for a suicide, who was denied at the dawn, denied by those he left behind …
‘… who came before Pilate and then the people, and then as now, who was not chosen, who was rejected, but who spoke not a word …
‘… who felt the thorns of the crown, the spit from their mouths and the smote of the reed, and then the wood of the Cross …
‘… who felt the nails through his hand, felt the nail through his feet, who from the Cross looked down on the world, who then from the Cross looked up to Heaven, and who cried, Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?’
I stop writing again, put down my pen again. I wipe my neck, wipe my face and dry my eyes; I dry my eyes and turn again to Him –
‘… who in his last cry, in those last words, moved closer still to us, then gave up the ghost for us, and died for us, who died for us …
‘… who … who … who if not you?
‘… a ladder cruelly broken off in the ascent from earth to Heaven, still aslant amidst the downpour from the gloomy, murky sky …’
I stop again, pen down again, head in my hands, hands to my face, fingers in my eyes, rubbing my eyes, in my eyes, in my mind –
My Christ, my Christ, so many Christs:
My Christ is a mirror, the Universal Mirror; my Christ is a poet, a Bohemian poet; my Christ is a journalist, an ancient journalist; my Christ is a pacifist, a non-resistant Tolstoy, yet softer, softer still; my Christ is a communist, who came for the poor, who loved the poor, and who said, The foxes have holes, and the birds have nests, but the Son of Man hath not where to lay his head …
In the dread and in the terror of these words, my Christ, he speaks to me, in dread and in terror, he speaks to me, of the misery of his life, the example of his life, speaks to me and to every Child of the Holy Ghost, all the Children of the Holy Ghost; Christianity may one day perish, one day soon no doubt, but the Life of Christ, this Life of Jesus will continue to move us, whether in the West or whether in the East, will always move us, every Child of the Holy Ghost, all the Children of the Holy Ghost, move and speak to us – a ladder sadly broken off in the ascent from earth to Heaven, still aslant amidst the downpour from the gloomy, murky sky – for we are all travellers on the way to Emmaus, always seeking the Christ who will burn up our hearts.
In the horror and the quiet of the house now in night, I take my fingers from my eyes, take my hands from my face, and I look down at my desk, the papers on the desk, strewn across the desk, the books on the desk, open on the desk; I begin to close all the books, to tidy away all the books, all these Lives of Christ: Strauss, Renan, Farrar and Papini; closing all the books, tidying away all the books, the books and the Bibles, my three editions of the Bible: the one from Kyō Tsunetō, the one from Fumitake Muroga, and the one I will not close, I will not tidy away; the one I will take down the stairs, the one I will read before I sleep, I sleep tonight …
Now I reach across the papers, reach across the desk, I pick up a sachet of Veronal, open the sachet of Veronal, and I take the Veronal. Then I straighten up the papers, all the manuscript papers, put them into piles and put them to one side. And then I pick up my pen again, this chipped and narrow sword again, and for one last and final time, I write, I write and I write: a poem for my doctor, letters to my friends, letters I have practised, letters
