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- Джон Фоулз
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- Коллекционер
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- Стр. 148/299
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I
have
to
give
him
a
name
.
I
’
m
going
to
call
him
Caliban
.
Piero
.
I
’
ve
spent
the
whole
day
with
Piero
,
I
’
ve
read
all
about
him
,
I
’
ve
stared
at
all
the
pictures
in
the
book
,
I
’
ve
lived
them
.
How
can
I
ever
become
a
good
painter
when
I
know
so
little
geometry
and
mathematics
?
I
’
m
going
to
make
Caliban
buy
me
books
.
I
shall
become
a
geometrician
.
Shattering
doubts
about
modern
art
.
I
thought
of
Piero
standing
in
front
of
a
Jackson
Pollock
,
no
,
even
a
Picasso
or
a
Matisse
.
His
eyes
.
I
can
just
see
his
eyes
.
The
things
Piero
says
in
a
hand
.
In
a
fold
in
a
sleeve
.
I
know
all
this
,
we
’
ve
been
told
it
and
told
it
and
I
’
ve
said
it
.
But
today
I
really
felt
it
.
I
felt
our
whole
age
was
a
hoax
,
a
sham
.
The
way
people
talk
and
talk
about
tachism
and
cubism
and
this
ism
and
that
ism
and
all
the
long
words
they
use
—
great
smeary
clots
of
words
and
phrases
.
All
to
hide
the
fact
that
either
you
can
paint
or
you
can
’
t
.
I
want
to
paint
like
Berthe
Morisot
,
I
don
’
t
mean
with
her
colours
or
forms
or
anything
physical
,
but
with
her
simplicity
and
light
.
I
don
’
t
want
to
be
clever
or
great
or
"
significant
"
or
given
all
that
clumsy
masculine
analysis
.
I
want
to
paint
sunlight
on
children
’
s
faces
,
or
flowers
in
a
hedge
or
a
street
after
April
rain
.
The
essences
.
Not
the
things
themselves
.
Swimmings
of
light
on
the
smallest
things
.
Or
am
I
being
sentimental
?
Depressed
.
I
’
m
so
far
from
everything
.
From
normality
.
From
light
.
From
what
I
want
to
be
.
October
18th
