(no subject)
There’s something good to be said about solitude and silence. Neither are staples in Bond’s life, at least not before he came here, and neither were things he really looked forward to when in the midst of their adversaries. He took them as they came and moved on when they left. Here, even at the end of the universe, even in a bar that is never empty, Bond has silence and solitude in abundance. He’s surprised to note that he likes it.
He does not like the dearth of activities in this place. He could improvise, certainly, but the knowledge that such improvisation would inevitably become redundant made him reluctant to improvise at all. It was one think to strike the hot iron knowing it would cool the next moment, quite another strike when, for all you knew, it would remain hot for many moments more. Lethargy sets in when one has an abundance of time, and all Bond had, at the end of the universe, was time.
Predictably, boredom gnawed at him. He paced, smoked heavily, drank more and more, but he was relieved, in his agitation, that he had no one to share it with, that there was no May, no M, no colleague, no lover who had to endure the prowling animal he became in long stretches of boredom. He liked that no one could interrupt his thoughts as often as they could at home. Thinking was dangerous, he knew, especially in a civil servant. His job was to act, not to think, yet he found thinking a wholly invigorating experience. All the possibilities he had never considered, all the details he had never noticed-! It was not unlike that miserable spell after Tracy died, only he didn’t think or observe out of misery. More like out of a lack of options. Still, the invigoration arose from the sheer independence that came with thinking.
And that was what he liked about the solitude and the silence: the independence. Yes, on the one hand he didn’t have many options when he woke up in the morning, but on the other, he didn’t have a full schedule ahead of him, mandated by Her Majesty’s Secret Service. He could do whatever he wanted within the confines of the bar, even if that whatever would be, and so often was, nothing at all. He supposed sooner or later (preferably sooner) he’d have to make in roads with fellow patrons to see if one of them would take him out to his or her world, and from there see what sort of trouble he could get himself into. But right now he was getting used to this odd feeling of independence, of knowing that, in here, he was obligated to no one, no entity, other than himself.
He does not like the dearth of activities in this place. He could improvise, certainly, but the knowledge that such improvisation would inevitably become redundant made him reluctant to improvise at all. It was one think to strike the hot iron knowing it would cool the next moment, quite another strike when, for all you knew, it would remain hot for many moments more. Lethargy sets in when one has an abundance of time, and all Bond had, at the end of the universe, was time.
Predictably, boredom gnawed at him. He paced, smoked heavily, drank more and more, but he was relieved, in his agitation, that he had no one to share it with, that there was no May, no M, no colleague, no lover who had to endure the prowling animal he became in long stretches of boredom. He liked that no one could interrupt his thoughts as often as they could at home. Thinking was dangerous, he knew, especially in a civil servant. His job was to act, not to think, yet he found thinking a wholly invigorating experience. All the possibilities he had never considered, all the details he had never noticed-! It was not unlike that miserable spell after Tracy died, only he didn’t think or observe out of misery. More like out of a lack of options. Still, the invigoration arose from the sheer independence that came with thinking.
And that was what he liked about the solitude and the silence: the independence. Yes, on the one hand he didn’t have many options when he woke up in the morning, but on the other, he didn’t have a full schedule ahead of him, mandated by Her Majesty’s Secret Service. He could do whatever he wanted within the confines of the bar, even if that whatever would be, and so often was, nothing at all. He supposed sooner or later (preferably sooner) he’d have to make in roads with fellow patrons to see if one of them would take him out to his or her world, and from there see what sort of trouble he could get himself into. But right now he was getting used to this odd feeling of independence, of knowing that, in here, he was obligated to no one, no entity, other than himself.