Thinking about Nicholas Hawksmoor

I had been thinking about Nicholas Hawksmoor - I read Ackroyd's novel in a sort of trance - the idea of the visible world being just a rind over darkness was one that had already haunted me - I wanted to visit one of the six churches -

When I was a boy, I hid at night deep under my blankets - I had my own special ritual to keep myself safe - I lay there, in a special posture - I listened intently to my tiny radio - when I shut my eyes, I saw banks of stars -

I'd seen how you might peel up bright turf from a lawn - how, underneath, there were delving creatures -

Richard told me of a terrible dream he'd had as a boy - he was trapped in a place deep underground, lit by a red sky - there was a thin buzzing whine, over and over, sounding in his head -

I remembered the conversation between Ransom and Weston, racing over the oceans of Perelandra -

I went with Sophie to Spitalfields - there was the new market, with its high glass roof, the elegant thin shoppers sashaying by -

Outside, under the blue sky, there was the brutal temple of Christ Church - but I could not bring myself to enter it -

The bright buildings, the innocent people on the pavements, the naive cyclists - they might all, I thought, dissolve at any moment -