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- Джон Фоулз
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Nobody
who
has
not
lived
in
a
dungeon
could
understand
how
absolute
the
silence
down
here
is
.
No
noise
unless
I
make
it
.
So
I
feel
near
death
.
Buried
.
No
outside
noises
to
help
me
be
living
at
all
.
Often
I
put
on
a
record
.
Not
to
hear
music
,
but
to
hear
something
.
I
have
a
strange
illusion
quite
often
.
I
think
I
’
ve
become
deaf
.
I
have
to
make
a
little
noise
to
prove
I
’
m
not
.
I
clear
my
throat
to
show
myself
that
everything
’
s
quite
normal
.
It
’
s
like
the
little
Japanese
girl
they
found
in
the
ruins
of
Hiroshima
.
Everything
dead
;
and
she
was
singing
to
her
doll
.
October
25th
I
must
must
must
escape
.
I
spent
hours
and
hours
today
thinking
about
it
.
Wild
ideas
.
He
’
s
so
cunning
,
it
’
s
incredible
.
Foolproof
.
It
must
seem
I
never
try
to
escape
.
But
I
can
’
t
try
every
day
,
that
’
s
the
trouble
.
I
have
to
space
out
the
attempts
.
And
each
day
here
is
like
a
week
outside
.
Violence
is
no
good
.
It
must
be
cunning
.
Face
-
to
-
face
,
I
can
’
t
be
violent
.
The
idea
makes
me
feel
weak
at
the
knees
.
I
remember
wandering
with
Donald
somewhere
in
the
East
End
after
we
’
d
been
to
the
Whitechapel
and
we
saw
a
group
of
teddies
standing
round
two
middle
-
aged
Indians
.
We
crossed
the
street
,
I
felt
sick
.
The
teddies
were
shouting
,
chivvying
and
bullying
them
off
the
pavement
on
to
the
road
.
Donald
said
,
what
can
one
do
,
and
we
both
pretended
to
shrug
it
off
,
to
hurry
away
.
But
it
was
beastly
,
their
violence
and
our
fear
of
violence
.
If
he
came
to
me
now
and
knelt
and
handed
me
the
poker
,
I
couldn
’
t
hit
him
.
It
’
s
no
good
.
I
’
ve
been
trying
to
sleep
for
the
last
half
-
hour
,
and
I
can
’
t
.
Writing
here
is
a
sort
of
drug
.
It
’
s
the
only
thing
I
look
forward
to
.
This
afternoon
I
read
what
I
wrote
about
G
.
P
.
the
day
before
yesterday
.
And
it
seemed
vivid
.
