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Josiah Flores
Josiah Flores

Strange Love English Version Indian Series Full Episodes 583 ((BETTER))


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strange love english version indian series full episodes 583


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Grief in childhood is complicated with many other miseries. I was takeninto the bedroom where my mother lay dead; as they said, "to see her",in reality, as I at once knew, "to see it". There was nothing that agrown-up would call disfigurement--except for that total disfigurementwhich is death itself. Grief was overwhelmed in terror. To this day I donot know what they mean when they call dead bodies beautiful. Theugliest man alive is an angel of beauty compared with the loveliest ofthe dead. Against all the subsequent paraphernalia of coffin, flowers,hearse, and funeral I reacted with horror. I even lectured one of myaunts on the absurdity of mourning clothes in a style which would haveseemed to most adults both heartless and precocious; but this was ourdear Aunt Annie, my maternal uncle's Canadian wife, a woman almost assensible and sunny as my mother herself. To my hatred for what I alreadyfelt to be all the fuss and flummery of the funeral I may perhaps tracesomething in me which I now recognise as a defect but which I have neverfully overcome--a distaste for all that is public, all that belongs tothe collective; a boorish inaptitude for formality.


Most reluctantly, venturing no blame, and as tenderly as I would at needreveal some error in my own mother, I must begin with dear Miss C., theMatron. No school ever had a better Matron, more skilled and comfortingto boys in sickness, or more cheery and companionable to boys in health.She was one of the most selfless people I have ever known. We all lovedher; I, the orphan, especially. Now it so happened that Miss C., whoseemed old to me, was still in her spiritual immaturity, still hunting,with the eagerness of a soul that had a touch of angelic quality in it,for a truth and a way of life. Guides were even rarer then than now. Shewas (as I should now put it) floundering in the mazes of Theosophy,Rosicrucianism, Spiritualism; the whole Anglo-American Occultisttradition. Nothing was further from her intention than to destroy myfaith; she could not tell that the room into which she brought thiscandle was full of gunpowder. I had never heard of such things before;never, except in a nightmare or a fairy tale, conceived of spirits otherthan God and men. I had loved to read of strange sights and other worldsand unknown modes of being, but never with the slightest belief; eventhe phantom dwarf had only flashed on my mind for a moment. It is agreat mistake to suppose that children believe the things they imagine;and I, long familiar with the whole imaginary world of Animal-Land andIndia (which I could not possibly believe in since I knew I was one ofits creators) was as little likely as any child to make that mistake.But now, for the first time, there burst upon me the idea that theremight be real marvels all about us, that the visible world might be onlya curtain to conceal huge realms uncharted by my very simple theology.And that started in me something with which, on and off, I have hadplenty of trouble since--the desire for the preternatural, simply assuch, the passion for the Occult. Not everyone has this disease; thosewho have will know what I mean. I once tried to describe it in a novel.It is a spiritual lust; and like the lust of the body it has the fatalpower of making everything else in the world seem uninteresting while itlasts. It is probably this passion, more even than the desire for power,which makes magicians. But the result of Miss C.'s conversation did notstop there. Little by little, unconsciously, unintentionally, sheloosened the whole framework, blunted all the sharp edges, of my belief.The vagueness, the merely speculative character, of all this Occultismbegan to spread--yes, and to spread deliciously--to the stern truths ofthe creed. The whole thing became a matter of speculation: I was soon(in the famous words) "altering 'I believe' to 'one does feel'". And oh,the relief of it! Those moonlit nights in the dormitory at Belsen fadedfar away. From the tyrannous noon of revelation I passed into the coolevening twilight of Higher Thought, where there was nothing to beobeyed, and nothing to be believed except what was either comforting orexciting. I do not mean that Miss C. did this; better say that the Enemydid this in me, taking occasion from things she innocently said.


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