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- Джон Фоулз
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- Коллекционер
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I
know
what
I
am
to
him
.
A
butterfly
he
has
always
wanted
to
catch
.
I
remember
(
the
very
first
time
I
met
him
)
G
.
P
.
saying
that
collectors
were
the
worst
animals
of
all
.
He
meant
art
collectors
,
of
course
.
I
didn
’
t
really
understand
,
I
thought
he
was
just
trying
to
shock
Caroline
—
and
me
.
But
of
course
,
he
is
right
.
They
’
re
anti
-
life
,
anti
-
art
,
anti
-
everything
.
I
write
in
this
terrible
nightlike
silence
as
if
I
feel
normal
.
But
I
’
m
not
.
I
’
m
so
sick
,
so
frightened
,
so
alone
.
The
solitude
is
unbearable
.
Every
time
the
door
opens
I
want
to
rush
at
it
and
out
.
But
I
know
now
I
must
save
up
my
escape
attempts
.
Outwit
him
.
Plan
ahead
.
Survive
.
October
16th
It
’
s
afternoon
.
I
should
be
in
life
class
.
Does
the
world
go
on
?
Does
the
sun
still
shine
?
Last
night
,
I
thought
—
I
am
dead
.
This
is
death
.
This
is
hell
.
There
wouldn
’
t
be
other
people
in
hell
.
Or
just
one
,
like
him
.
The
devil
wouldn
’
t
be
devilish
and
rather
attractive
,
but
like
him
.
I
drew
him
this
morning
.
I
wanted
to
get
his
face
,
to
illustrate
this
.
But
it
wasn
’
t
any
good
,
and
he
wanted
it
.
Said
he
would
pay
TWO
HUNDRED
guineas
for
it
.
He
is
mad
.
It
is
me
.
I
am
his
madness
.
For
years
he
’
s
been
looking
for
something
to
put
his
madness
into
.
And
he
found
me
.
I
can
’
t
write
in
a
vacuum
like
this
.
To
no
one
.
When
I
draw
I
always
think
of
someone
like
G
.
P
.
at
my
shoulder
.
