I have little to say on this short, brilliant chapter. Its purpose is poetry, a breather, a rest from the shock and activity we’ve just been swept through. Here are some of its gems.
The first half is part wall break, part insanity. The “emeritus read to by a boy” echoes the opening of Eliot’s “Gerontion.” H.H. is speaking here to his fellow nympholepts, all of whom hide among us in plain sight.
The second paragraph is a glorious Boschian panorama of nature and the nature of man. We are left with a wincing child, and sigh.