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- Джек Лондон
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- Мартин Иден
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Martin
’
s
face
,
flushed
at
first
,
paled
as
he
read
on
.
It
was
perfect
art
.
Form
triumphed
over
substance
,
if
triumph
it
could
be
called
where
the
last
conceivable
atom
of
substance
had
found
expression
in
so
perfect
construction
as
to
make
Martin
’
s
head
swim
with
delight
,
to
put
passionate
tears
into
his
eyes
,
and
to
send
chills
creeping
up
and
down
his
back
.
It
was
a
long
poem
of
six
or
seven
hundred
lines
,
and
it
was
a
fantastic
,
amazing
,
unearthly
thing
.
It
was
terrific
,
impossible
;
and
yet
there
it
was
,
scrawled
in
black
ink
across
the
sheets
of
paper
.
It
dealt
with
man
and
his
soul
-
gropings
in
their
ultimate
terms
,
plumbing
the
abysses
of
space
for
the
testimony
of
remotest
suns
and
rainbow
spectrums
.
It
was
a
mad
orgy
of
imagination
,
wassailing
in
the
skull
of
a
dying
man
who
half
sobbed
under
his
breath
and
was
quick
with
the
wild
flutter
of
fading
heart
-
beats
.
The
poem
swung
in
majestic
rhythm
to
the
cool
tumult
of
interstellar
conflict
,
to
the
onset
of
starry
hosts
,
to
the
impact
of
cold
suns
and
the
flaming
up
of
nebulae
in
the
darkened
void
;
and
through
it
all
,
unceasing
and
faint
,
like
a
silver
shuttle
,
ran
the
frail
,
piping
voice
of
man
,
a
querulous
chirp
amid
the
screaming
of
planets
and
the
crash
of
systems
.
"
There
is
nothing
like
it
in
literature
,
"
Martin
said
,
when
at
last
he
was
able
to
speak
.
"
It
’
s
wonderful
!
—
wonderful
!
It
has
gone
to
my
head
.
I
am
drunken
with
it
.
That
great
,
infinitesimal
question
—
I
can
’
t
shake
it
out
of
my
thoughts
.
That
questing
,
eternal
,
ever
recurring
,
thin
little
wailing
voice
of
man
is
still
ringing
in
my
ears
.
It
is
like
the
dead
-
march
of
a
gnat
amid
the
trumpeting
of
elephants
and
the
roaring
of
lions
.
It
is
insatiable
with
microscopic
desire
.
I
now
I
’
m
making
a
fool
of
myself
,
but
the
thing
has
obsessed
me
.
You
are
—
I
don
’
t
know
what
you
are
—
you
are
wonderful
,
that
’
s
all
.
But
how
do
you
do
it
?
How
do
you
do
it
?
"
Martin
paused
from
his
rhapsody
,
only
to
break
out
afresh
.
"
I
shall
never
write
again
.
I
am
a
dauber
in
clay
.
You
have
shown
me
the
work
of
the
real
artificer
-
artisan
.
Genius
!
This
is
something
more
than
genius
.
It
transcends
genius
.
It
is
truth
gone
mad
.
It
is
true
,
man
,
every
line
of
it
.
I
wonder
if
you
realize
that
,
you
dogmatist
.
Science
cannot
give
you
the
lie
.
It
is
the
truth
of
the
sneer
,
stamped
out
from
the
black
iron
of
the
Cosmos
and
interwoven
with
mighty
rhythms
of
sound
into
a
fabric
of
splendor
and
beauty
.
And
now
I
won
’
t
say
another
word
.
I
am
overwhelmed
,
crushed
.
Yes
,
I
will
,
too
.
Let
me
market
it
for
you
.
"
Brissenden
grinned
.
"
There
’
s
not
a
magazine
in
Christendom
that
would
dare
to
publish
it
—
you
know
that
.
"
"
I
know
nothing
of
the
sort
.
I
know
there
’
s
not
a
magazine
in
Christendom
that
wouldn
’
t
jump
at
it
.
They
don
’
t
get
things
like
that
every
day
.
That
’
s
no
mere
poem
of
the
year
.
It
’
s
the
poem
of
the
century
.
"
"
I
’
d
like
to
take
you
up
on
the
proposition
.
"
"
Now
don
’
t
get
cynical
,
"
Martin
exhorted
.
"
The
magazine
editors
are
not
wholly
fatuous
.
I
know
that
.
And
I
’
ll
close
with
you
on
the
bet
.
I
’
ll
wager
anything
you
want
that
‘
Ephemera
’
is
accepted
either
on
the
first
or
second
offering
.
"
