Moony

After his illness Birkin went to the south of France for a time. He did
not write, nobody heard anything of him. Ursula, left alone, felt as if
everything were lapsing out. There seemed to be no hope in the world.
One was a tiny little rock with the tide of nothingness rising higher
and higher She herself was real, and only herself--just like a rock in
a wash of flood-water. The rest was all nothingness. She was hard and
indifferent, isolated in herself.

There was nothing for it now, but contemptuous, resistant indifference.
All the world was lapsing into a grey wish-wash of nothingness, she had
no contact and no connection anywhere. She despised and detested the
whole show. From the bottom of her heart, from the bottom of her soul,
she despised and detested people, adult people. She loved only children
and animals: children she loved passionately, but coldly. They made her
want to hug them, to protect them, to give them life. But this very
love, based on pity and despair, was only a bondage and a pain to her.
She loved best of all the animals, that were single and unsocial as she
herself was. She loved the horses and cows in the field. Each was
single and to itself, magical. It was not referred away to some
detestable social principle. It was incapable of soulfulness and
tragedy, which she detested so profoundly.

She could be very pleasant and flattering, almost subservient, to
people she met. But no one was taken in. Instinctively each felt her
contemptuous mockery of the human being in himself, or herself. She had
a profound grudge against the human being. That which the word 'human'
stood for was despicable and repugnant to her.