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- Джон Фоулз
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C
.
Just
silly
jokes
.
I
didn
’
t
go
on
.
I
have
an
irresistible
desire
sometimes
to
get
to
the
bottom
of
him
,
to
drag
things
he
won
’
t
talk
about
out
of
him
.
But
it
’
s
bad
.
It
sounds
as
if
I
care
about
him
and
his
miserable
,
wet
,
unwithit
life
.
When
you
use
words
.
The
gaps
.
The
way
Caliban
sits
,
a
certain
bowed
-
and
-
upright
posture
—
why
?
Embarrassment
?
To
spring
at
me
if
I
run
for
it
?
I
can
draw
it
.
I
can
draw
his
face
and
his
expressions
,
but
words
are
all
so
used
,
they
’
ve
been
used
about
so
many
other
things
and
people
.
I
write
"
he
smiled
.
"
What
does
that
mean
?
No
more
than
a
kindergarten
poster
painting
of
a
turnip
with
a
moon
-
mouth
smile
.
Yet
if
I
draw
the
smile
.
.
.
Words
are
so
crude
,
so
terribly
primitive
compared
to
drawing
,
painting
,
sculpture
.
"
I
sat
on
my
bed
and
he
sat
by
the
door
and
we
talked
and
I
tried
to
persuade
him
to
use
his
money
to
educate
himself
and
he
said
he
would
but
I
didn
’
t
feel
convinced
.
"
Like
a
messy
daub
.
Like
trying
to
draw
with
a
broken
lead
.
All
this
is
my
own
thinking
.
I
need
to
see
G
.
P
.
He
’
d
tell
me
the
names
of
ten
books
where
it
’
s
all
said
much
better
.
How
I
hate
ignorance
!
Caliban
’
s
ignorance
,
my
ignorance
,
the
world
’
s
ignorance
!
Oh
,
I
could
learn
and
learn
and
learn
and
learn
.
I
could
cry
,
I
want
to
learn
so
much
.
Gagged
and
bound
.
I
’
ll
put
this
to
bed
where
it
lives
under
the
mattress
.
Then
I
’
ll
pray
to
God
for
learning
.
