incomprehensible. And if mankind passes away, it will only mean that
this particular expression is completed and done. That which is
expressed, and that which is to be expressed, cannot be diminished.
There it is, in the shining evening. Let mankind pass away--time it
did. The creative utterances will not cease, they will only be there.
Humanity doesn't embody the utterance of the incomprehensible any more.
Humanity is a dead letter. There will be a new embodiment, in a new
way. Let humanity disappear as quick as possible.'

Gerald interrupted him by asking,

'Where are you staying in London?'

Birkin looked up.

'With a man in Soho. I pay part of the rent of a flat, and stop there
when I like.'

'Good idea--have a place more or less your own,' said Gerald.

'Yes. But I don't care for it much. I'm tired of the people I am bound
to find there.'

'What kind of people?'

'Art--music--London Bohemia--the most pettifogging calculating Bohemia
that ever reckoned its pennies. But there are a few decent people,
decent in some respects. They are really very thorough rejecters of the
world--perhaps they live only in the gesture of rejection and
negation--but negatively something, at any rate.'