"Yes," Walkham, the sculptor, mused aloud, "it is indeed a peculiar thing."
"What is?" Ernest inquired, his attention returning from the inscrutable gaze of the Sphinx that, from its nook, watched him with the enigmatic air of ancient wisdom.
"The way our dreams from yesterday look upon us now as if we were strangers."
Reginald interjected with a different perspective. "Actually, it would be odd if they did recognize us. To expect constancy in vision would be against nature. The universe is in a state of constant flux. The very atoms within us oscillate at speeds beyond comprehension. Change and life are synonymous."
"It sometimes feels," Walkham pondered, "as if thoughts dissipated into thin air."
"Why not, if the conditions are right?"
"But where do they end up? They can't just vanish completely, can they?"
"That's the crux," Reginald replied. "Or rather, it's not even a question. Nothing truly vanishes in the realm of the spirit."
Ernest, curious about the catalyst for this conversation, asked, "What brings you to these reflections?"
"It's because," the sculptor explained, "I had a compelling inspiration, and it slipped away."
"Remember," he directed his words to Reginald, recalling a past encounter, "the sculpture of Narcissus I was crafting when you last visited my studio".
"Yes, I remember the piece was quite impressive. I can't quite recall it at the moment, though," Reginald admitted.
"It was a special commission. An unconventional young millionaire had promised me a handsome sum—eight thousand dollars—for it. The concept was entirely novel. Yet now, I find myself unable to bring it to fruition. It's as if the inspiration has been whisked away by the wind."
"That's a great pity," Reginald acknowledged.
"I would certainly think so," Walkham agreed, with a hint of exasperation.
Ernest offered a knowing smile. Walkham's personal life was somewhat of an open book—having appeared in the divorce courts more than once, he was currently sustaining the financial burden of three separate households.
Meanwhile, Walkham had settled himself at Reginald's desk and had begun to inadvertently peruse a typewritten document that lay there. With the typical impetuousness of a creative soul, he initially skimmed it without much focus, but soon his attention was captured so completely that he forgot the lack of etiquette in reading another's manuscript.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed suddenly. "What have we here?"
"It's a work about the French Revolution," Reginald answered, mildly taken aback by the sculptor's fervor.
"But, you see, I have found the motif I was missing in this!" Walkham declared.
"What do you mean?" Ernest asked, his gaze shifting between a potentially inspired Walkham and a silent Reginald, starting to wonder about the sculptor's state of mind.
"Listen to this!"
With a voice quivering with excitement, Walkham began to read aloud a passage from the manuscript. The rhythm of the words was music to Ernest's ears, but did nothing to shed light on Walkham's mysterious assertion.
Reginald remained silent, his expression unreadable, but the spark in his eyes indicated that, for once, his interest had been genuinely piqued.
Recognizing the blank looks on their faces, Walkham realized he needed to clarify his point.
"I forget that you don't think like a sculptor. My nature is such that all sensory experiences immediately translate into a spatial form. When I hear music, I don't just hear it—I see it ascend into domes and spires, stained glass windows, and elaborate patterns. The fragrance of a rose is almost something I can touch. And so, the rhythmic qualities of your prose, Reginald, evoked in my mind the very image of Narcissus that I had been struggling to capture in my sculpture."
Reginald appeared contemplative. "That's fascinating. I hadn't considered it."
Ernest, aiming to probe deeper but without exposing too much of his suspicion, said, "So you find nothing outlandish in this idea?"
"Not at all," Reginald responded. "It's entirely plausible. While I was writing that passage, the essence of your Narcissus might have been influencing me subconsciously. It wouldn't be surprising if the undercurrents of our own thoughts colored our writing."
"So, are you suggesting," Ernest pursued, "that a discerning psychologist could interpret from our writing not just the explicit content, but also the thoughts and emotions we haven't articulated?"
"Absolutely," Reginald confirmed.
"That would indeed be revolutionary for psychology," Ernest considered, "especially if we're unaware of these mental states while we're engaged in the process of writing."
"Indeed, that's true," Reginald concurred. "Only those with the key, the capability to decipher the concealed symbols, can truly understand the full breadth of our writings. It's a given that any mental activity, whether it crosses into our conscious mind or remains beneath it, must inevitably leave its mark, be it indistinct or distinct, on our actions."
Ernest nodded, adding, "That could be why some literature that seems utterly tedious to most can captivate a select few."
"Exactly," Reginald said. "It resonates with those who hold the key. I recall an instance when an uncle of mine abruptly ended a discussion on advanced mathematics, visibly embarrassed when his naive wife glanced at his notes. The author of the work he was reading was known for his promiscuity."
Walkham chimed in with a thoughtful observation, "So, even books that appear perfectly innocuous might, under the radar, plant seeds of vice in the minds of the young."
"Only if they are able to perceive it," Clarke replied, considering the idea. "I can imagine a text on calculus that's infused with lascivious undertones, or an account of a simple outing that conceals, to those unaware, the intense and tragic romance of Tristram and Iseult."