Aymeric Quotes

Prior Aymer, who pushed his mule betwixt his companion and

An oily fish,’ warned George. ‘Take heed you don’t grease up the lappets on that coat.’ ‘The pilchard is a surface fish,’ replied Aymer, picking knowledge from his memory as clumsily as he now was picking bones from between his teeth. He was delighted to see George. ‘Pelagic is the term. You know the word?’ ‘Don’t know the word. I know the fish well enough. There’s nothing else this time of year, exceptin’ pilchers.’ ‘Demersic is the other word, I think. The twin of pelagic. It speaks of fish that live upon the ocean floor. I see a parallel with people here. Those shoals of common men who live near the surface, and those solitary, more silent ones that inhabit deeper water. I count myself to be demersic, then. You, George, can I describe you as pelagic, a pilchard as it were? You would not take offence at that?’ ‘You’re talking to a pilchard, then?’ ‘Well, yes, I am, within my metaphor …’ ‘Mistaking a man for a fish is madness, I should say. It in’t what I’d call deep and solitary. What was that word you used?’ ‘Demersic, George.’ ‘Now, there’s a word! What do you say I’ll never have to use that word again?’ ‘Do not hold words in low regard. Words have power, George. Words are deeds …’ ‘Oh, yes?’ said George. ‘And the wind is a potato, I suppose. If words are deeds, then I’m the meanest man in Wherrytown. There in’t a sin I won’t have done.’ ‘No, what I meant to say is this, that words and deeds should be the same. You make a promise, you should keep it. You hold a view, then you should stand by it. You should say what you do: you should do what you say.’ ‘Well, there’s the difference,’ said George, evidently losing interest. ‘People in these parts in’t impressed by words. They don’t mean what they say. They only mean what they do. And that, I think, makes better sense.

Aymer turned towards the sea. There was a perfect panorama of chapel, town and harbour, with thinning wraiths of smoke haunting the sky in silent, crooked unison and the last remaining smudges of the snow slipping down those roofs that had no warming chimneys. Was this worthy of a sketch, a verse, an observation in his diary, Aymer wondered. What was that phrase he’d read that morning in dell‘Ova? He took the book from his pocket and found the passage: ‘The solitary Traveller has better company than those that voyage in the multitude, for he has Nature as his best Companion and no man can be lonely in its Assemblies of sky and earth and water, nor want of Friends.’ Aymer read this passage several times. It ought to comfort him, he thought. He was one of life’s ‘solitary travellers’ after all, a Radical, an aesthete and a bachelor. He didn’t voyage in the multitude. He knew that he was destined to a life alone. He looked for solace in the Assembly of sky and earth and water that was spread out before him. But there wasn’t any solace. He couldn’t fool himself. He’d rather be some cheerful low-jack, welcome at an inn, than the emperor of all this landscape

An oily fish,’ warned George. ‘Take heed you don’t grease up the lappets on that coat.’ ‘The pilchard is a surface fish,’ replied Aymer, picking knowledge from his memory as clumsily as he now was picking bones from between his teeth. He was delighted to see George. ‘Pelagic is the term. You know the word?’ ‘Don’t know the word. I know the fish well enough. There’s nothing else this time of year, exceptin’ pilchers.’ ‘Demersic is the other word, I think. The twin of pelagic. It speaks of fish that live upon the ocean floor. I see a parallel with people here. Those shoals of common men who live near the surface, and those solitary, more silent ones that inhabit deeper water. I count myself to be demersic, then. You, George, can I describe you as pelagic, a pilchard as it were? You would not take offence at that?’ ‘You’re talking to a pilchard, then?’ ‘Well, yes, I am, within my metaphor …’ ‘Mistaking a man for a fish is madness, I should say. It in’t what I’d call deep and solitary. What was that word you used?’ ‘Demersic, George.’ ‘Now, there’s a word! What do you say I’ll never have to use that word again?’ ‘Do not hold words in low regard. Words have power, George. Words are deeds …’ ‘Oh, yes?’ said George. ‘And the wind is a potato, I suppose. If words are deeds, then I’m the meanest man in Wherrytown. There in’t a sin I won’t have done.