I suppose that should have been self-evident, but I’m only realizing it now.
He wanted to believe it was true. He did believe it was true. But he also knew it wasn’t. Ferrie told him it didn’t matter, true or not. The thing that mattered was the rapture of the fear of believing.
It confirmed everything. It justified everything. Every violence and lie, every time he’d cheated on his wife. It allowed him to collapse inside, to melt toward awe and dread. That’s what Ferrie said. It explained his dreams. The Chinese caused his dreams. Every terror and queerness of sleep, every unspeakability - it is painted in China white.