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Updated: May 29, 2025
But 'I, he summed up, 'owe nothing to France. He nodded at me. 'You'll see, he predicted. I did not, when the time came, quite see that. I thought the author of 'Fungoids' did unconsciously, of course owe something to the young Parisian decadents, or to the young English ones who owed something to THEM. I still think so. The little book bought by me in Oxford lies before me as I write.
I thought the author of "Fungoids" did, unconsciously of course, owe something to the young Parisian decadents or to the young English ones who owed something to THEM. I still think so. The little book, bought by me in Oxford, lies before me as I write. Its pale-gray buckram cover and silver lettering have not worn well. Nor have its contents.
In truth they are not so much remains as relics; for they are still working miracles. A row of poplars is a more Roman relic than a row of pillars. Nearly all that we call the works of nature have but grown like fungoids upon this original work of man; and our woods are mosses on the bones of a giant.
At any rate swamp and fenlands in England are always especially rich in gay grasses or gorgeous fungoids; and seem sometimes as glorious as a transformation scene; but also as unsubstantial. In these splendid scenes it is always very easy to put your foot through the scenery. You may sink up to your armpits; but you will sink up to your armpits in flowers.
I'd forgotten the exact tale; but you know the place I mean; it lies north of Todd's house towards the wilderness, and has two queer wrinkled trees, so dismal that they look more like huge fungoids than decent foliage.
"That's what you were going to say, isn't it?" he asked. "How did you know?" "It's what you said to me three years ago, when 'Fungoids' was published." I flushed the more. I need not have flushed at all. "It's the only important thing I ever heard you say," he continued. "And I've never forgotten it. It's a true thing. It's a horrible truth. But d'you remember what I answered?
I sadly suspect that Soames could not have made more of it than she. Yet, even now, if one doesn't try to make any sense at all of the poem, and reads it just for the sound, there is a certain grace of cadence. Soames was an artist in so far as he was anything, poor fellow! It seemed to me, when first I read 'Fungoids, that, oddly enough, the Diabolistic side of him was the best.
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