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Eminent Gurdjieffians: LORD PENTLAND

by James Moore

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Lord Pentland transits the wild and bloody embroglio of World War II like a risk-averse apparition. To what shy duties did he brace himself?

All his life Piotr Ouspensky had been in search of the miraculous but the sudden disappearance of his wife seemed to him a special providence.

On 30 April 1945 Adolf Hitler shot himself. Eternal Recurrence afforded him Hobson’s choice. He invariably shot himself.

After telephoning the Gargoyle Club Lord Pentland entered his old haunt with aplomb, wearing carpet slippers and grey and scarlet diamond patterned socks.

America’s intellectual elite addressed questions ranging from “Why is there something rather than nothing?” to “What are you doing after the Colloquium?”

Robert Burton deemed Pentland a mature Man Number Four consistently trying to remember himself from the King of Hearts; but a man in whom higher centres had not ignited.

Captain John Godolphin Bennett was famed as a man whose higher centres practically constituted a fire-hazard.

Lord Pentland was in an agony of indecision. The new version of Beelzebub’s Tales was preferable but so was the original; he did not know, he could not positively say.

Essentially Pentland’s funeral service all rang true. Only a scoffer and a Philistine would devalue so many serious eyes companionably uplifted; so many gathered presences pledged to a commonwealth of revitalised aspiration. And yet, and yet...
 

 

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