The swing with Thaw on it flew high and stopped, leaving him in an absurd position with his knees higher than his back-flung head. The tree no longer rustled. Each branch and leaf was locked photographically in a single moment and as in old photographs the colour faded out, leaving the scene monochrome and brownish. Lanark stared at it through the ward window and said thoughtfully, “Thaw was not good at being happy.”
The oracle said He was bad at it.
“Yet that is almost a happy ending.”
A story can always end happily by stopping at a cheerful moment. Of course in nature the only end is death, but death hardly ever happens when people are at their best. That is why we like tragedies. They show men ending energetically with their wits about them and deserving to do it.
“Did Thaw die tragically?”
No. He botched his end. It set no example, not even a bad one. He was unacceptable to the infinite bright blankness, the clarity without edge which only selfishness fears. It flung him back into a second-class railway carriage, creating you.
Lanark spread cheese on a slice of rye bread and said, “I don’t understand that.”
Rima’s head stirred among the waves of blond hair on the pillow. Without opening her eyes she murmured, “Go on with the story.”
