[Internal monologue while walking out of Brideshead Castle] If you asked me now who I am, the only answer I could give with any certainty would be my name: Charles Ryder. For the rest: my loves, my hates, down even to my deepest desires, I can no longer say whether these emotions are my own, or stolen from those I once so desperately wished to be. On second thought, one emotion remains my own. Alone among the borrowed and the second-hand, as pure as that faith from which I am still in flight: Guilt.
What do you want to be an artist for? I mean, what's the point of it? Why don't you just buy a bloody camera and take a bloody photograph and stop giving yourself airs? That's what I want to know.
I don't give myself airs.
Uh, yes, you do. And anyway you haven't answered my question. Come on! Answer! Answer! Answer!
Because, a camera is a mechanical device which records a moment in time, but not what that moment means or the emotions that it evokes. Whereas, a painting, however imperfect it may be, is an expression of... feeling. An expression of love. Not just a copy of something.
That woman nearly suffocated him... Well, just look at her children. Even when they were tiny, in the nursery, they must do what she wants them to do, be what she wants them to be. Only then would she love them. It's not Lady Marchmain's fault. Her God has done that to her.
But surely you're Catholic too.
Oh, yes, but a different sort. Well, it's different in Italy. Not so much guilt. We do what the heart tell us, and then we go to confession.
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