It was not true, what he had tried for renunciation’s sake to believe, that all the combinations were exhausted. They were not, they were not—they were infinite: the exhaustion was in the miserable artist.
Henry James, “The Middle Years.” Henry James: Complete Stories 1892-1898, ed. John Hollander and David Bromwich (New York: The Library of America, 1996), 342.
Dencombe’s mind wandered from the idle chatter he was having with Doctor Hugh to a more introspective quaint thought on the slight absurdity of the interaction. To take the words of a doctor seriously on health is subverted by the fact that the doctor is taking Dencombe’s own written words seriously. How is it odd for such a combination to exist? Does Dencombe slightly sound contrarian? What does he mean by :the exhaustion was in the miserable artist” in relation to the “infinite combinations” he previously spoke of?