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Originally Posted by issybird
I can't remember what we know of Maurice's backstory, but he seems alone in the world. He's well into his thirties, lives in a room where his books (and he's a writer) have to go under his bed, never married and so on. I can understand him as being overly and unhealthily protective of his great love and lashing out as he lost it.
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The way you phrased this statement reminded me of this paragraph in the opening pages. How sad.
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It was strange to see Henry out on such a night: he liked his comfort and after all—or so I thought—he had Sarah. To me comfort is like the wrong memory at the wrong place or time: if one is lonely one prefers discomfort. There was too much comfort even in the bed sitting-room I had at the wrong—the south—side of the Common, in the relics of other people’s furniture.
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