E. M. Forster

Alive, but slightly absurd; they misunderstood him so utterly: they exposed their weakness when they thought themselves most acute. He could not help smiling.

When they sat it was nearly always in the same position- Maurice in a chair, and Durham at his feet, learning against him. In the world of their friends this attracted no notice. Maurice would stroke Durham's hair.

"The worst thing I could do for you is to discuss it."

He had lost the precocious clearness of the child which transfigures and explains the universe, offering answers of miraculous insight and beauty.

Who was George? Nobody- just a common servant. Mother and Ada and Kitty were far more important. But he was too little to argue this. He did not even know that when he yielded to this sorrow he overcame the spectral and fell asleep.

He had been such a man all the evening, but the old feeling came over him as soon as his mother had kissed him good night.

He could control the body; it was the tainted soul that mocked his prayers.

He stood still in the darkness instead of groping about in it, as if this was the end for which body and soul had been so painfully prepared.

Maurice stood over him, black-browed, and saw in this disgusting and dishonourable old age his own.

"Someone to last your whole life and you his. I suppose such a thing can't really happen outside sleep."

Durham couldn't do without him, and would be found at all hours curled up in his room and spoiling to argue.

"I should have gone through life half awake if you'd had the decency to leave me alone."