Sheltering sky how many times

Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless. Perhaps not even that. Behind the sheltering sky is a vast dark universe, and we're just so small. Indeed, he would have found it difficult to tell, among the many places he had lived, precisely where it was he had felt most at home. Port laughed abruptly. Then you begin taking it for granted. The meaningless hegemony of the involuntary. Point of darkness and gateway to repose. Reach out, pierce the fine fabric of the sheltering sky, take repose.

The room meant very little to him; he was too deeply immersed in the non-being from which he had just come. If he had not the energy to ascertain his position in time and space, he also lacked the desire.

In utter comfort, utter relaxation he lay absolutely still for a while, and then sank back into on the the light momentary sleeps that occur after a long, profound one. Yet everything happens a certain number of times, and a very small number, really One year was like another year. Eventually everything would happen.

We're hanging on to the outside for all we're worth, convinced we're going to fall off at the next bump. Unblinking, she fixed the solid emptiness, and the anguish began to move in her. Perhaps four or five times more. Perhaps not even. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless. Perhaps not even that. How fragile we are under the sheltering sky. One is reminded of Stephen Crane and his insistence that the universe has no interest in our well-being.

And why Kit Moresby self-destructs when Port dies. Instead of heroism we get self-indulgence; instead of insight we get self-delusion. It is one thing to lose; it is another altogether to throw away. The Moresbys, unlike Gatsby, are not reaching for some lost star; they are merely indulging their whims as they come. And they respond to the consequences of those whims in hedonistic, self-destructive ways.

That is why evaluating The Sheltering Sky is problematic. Its language is that of a great book; its themes are, while I believe well-intentioned, unsuccessfully articulated. What is meant as a critique of an attitude toward life bordering on the dilletantish is too easy to misinterpret as, in a strange way, a celebration of nihilistic impulse. That the central characters end badly may be lesson enough for some.

One wishes, though, that Bowles had brought us back to some image or moment or insight that crystallizes that critique — as the sand filled teacups in the story mentioned above make clear the danger of underestimating the power of nature. You are commenting using your WordPress. You are commenting using your Google account. You are commenting using your Twitter account. You are commenting using your Facebook account.

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