If the Consul is concerned with drinking, if he reviles himself incessantly during the first interview with his recently returned wife, and if he pursues this line of attack upon himself for more than a few pages and passes out in the end, what is his wife to think? The question of why she came back down here is not the answer: it is her self-destruction she must secretly wish for, embodied in her husband the Consul, Geoffrey Firmin, and the writer who linked those names together for one prodigious drinker.
I have said as much already in a later part of this essay, which will only become apparent once you discover that this blog post has some tremendous project behind it that really cannot get going without this indulgence: this place that seems vital, and one with its own saving mechanism: as in, it saves automatically.
Now, back to the point.
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