Just suppose that the dead do revisit the living. That something approximately to be described as Jim can return to see how George is making out. Wou… - Christopher Isherwood

And now an hour, maybe, has passed. And they are both drunk: Kenny fairly, George very. But George is drunk in a good way, and one that he seldom achieves. He tries to describe to himself what this kind of drunkenness is like. Well - to put it very crudely - it's like Plato; it's a dialogue. A dialogue between two people. Yes, but not a Platonic dialogue in the hair-splitting, word-twisting, one-up-to-me sense; not a mock-humble bitching match; not a debate on some dreary set theme. You can talk about anything and change the subject as often as you like. In fact, what really matters is not what you talk about, but the being together in this particular relationship.

These books have not made George nobler or better or more truly
wise. It is just that he likes listening to their voices, the one or the other, according to his
mood.

It seemed to me then that to have published a book - any kind of book - would be the greatest possible happiness I could ask from life.