Hadrian the Seventh by Frederick Rolfe — Read

April brought to Hadrian an experience of one of those periods of psychical disturbance which are incidental to the weakness of humanity, and inevitable by a man of His particular temper. Things lost their significance to Him, persons lost their personality, events their importance; and time was not. He kept a straight face, and forced Himself to courteous demeanour: but He was living in a world in which He felt Himself to be just off the floor and floating, a world in which everything was strange and everybody was quite strange, a world where nobody and nothing mattered the least little bit. He had the sense at the beginning to include Himself in secret behind guarded doors; and also to hold His tongue when His attendants were in the Presence. He simply sat and wondered -- wondered who He was, how He came there, who dressed Him like that, and when; -- and decided that it did not matter. He nursed His cat, cooing and mewing and talking cat-language in a most enjoyable manner. When the creature went away -- it did not matter. He used to gaze at His cross by the hour together, planning combinations of lights and shades and backgrounds of book-backs: placing the golden symbol there, and revelling in the supple splendour of the Form, its dignity, its grace, the majestic youth of the Face, noble and grave. He would close His eyes and learn the lovely planes and contours with delicate reverent touch. It pleased Him to think that He had created a type of incarnate divinity, which neither was the Orpheys of the catacombs, nor the Tragic Mask of the Vernicle, nor the gross sexless indecencies wherewith pious Catholics in their churches insult the One among ten thousand, the Altogether Lovely. That thought brought Him back to Space and Time. Indignation at images at least eleven heads long, proportioned like female fashion-plates, visaged like emasculate noodles whom you would slap in the face on sight, simply for their tepid attenuate silliness, if you met them in the flesh -- this drew down Hadrian to realities and life.

-- He felt utterly exhausted. An exposition of sleep seized Him. He was always drowsy; and would fall asleep in the daytime over the writing and reading which He put Himself to do, in His armchair by the window, in His favourite seat by the old wall in the garden where He spent the vivid afternoons of spring. Only toward nightfall, was He able to write that beautiful clear script of His, to bring any of His usual alertness to bear upon affairs: even then that alertness was extraordinarily diluted. His intellect was nebulous, uncertain. He could not select saliencies, could not concentrate his thoughts: His constructive faculty was in abeyance: His imagination was in chains. He spent a long time over His scanty meals, chewing, chewing, reading, reading, and remembering nothing which He read. In an inert perfunctory way, He blamed Himself for waste of time; and continued to waste it. No doubt it was divine nature's will. Let it be understood that He was not slothful in the confessional sense of the word. He was merely lethargic, dulled, blunted, listless, eager for nothing, except to flee away and be at rest -- at rest.