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- Джон Фоулз
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He
starts
by
being
a
nice
little
clerk
ends
up
as
a
drooling
horror
-
film
monster
.
When
he
was
going
I
showed
it
to
him
.
He
didn
’
t
laugh
,
he
simply
looked
at
it
carefully
.
It
’
s
only
natural
,
he
said
.
He
meant
,
that
I
should
make
such
fun
of
him
.
I
am
one
in
a
row
of
specimens
.
It
’
s
when
I
try
to
flutter
out
of
line
that
he
hates
me
.
I
’
m
meant
to
be
dead
,
pinned
,
always
the
same
,
always
beautiful
.
He
knows
that
part
of
my
beauty
is
being
alive
,
but
it
’
s
the
dead
me
he
wants
.
He
wants
me
living
-
but
-
dead
.
I
felt
it
terribly
strong
today
.
That
my
being
alive
and
changing
and
having
a
separate
mind
and
having
moods
and
all
that
was
becoming
a
nuisance
.
He
is
solid
;
immovable
,
iron
-
willed
.
He
showed
me
one
day
what
he
called
his
killing
-
bottle
.
I
’
m
imprisoned
in
it
.
Fluttering
against
the
glass
.
Because
I
can
see
through
it
I
still
think
I
can
escape
.
I
have
hope
.
But
it
’
s
all
an
illusion
.
A
thick
round
wall
of
glass
.
November
7th
How
the
days
drag
.
Today
.
Intolerably
long
.
My
one
consolation
is
G
.
P
.
’
s
drawing
.
It
grows
on
me
.
On
one
.
It
’
s
the
only
living
,
unique
,
created
thing
here
.
It
’
s
the
first
thing
I
look
at
when
I
wake
up
,
the
last
thing
at
night
.
I
stand
in
front
of
it
and
stare
at
it
.
I
know
every
line
.
He
made
a
fudge
of
one
of
her
feet
.
There
’
s
something
slightly
unbalanced
about
the
whole
composition
,
as
if
there
’
s
a
tiny
bit
missing
somewhere
.
But
it
lives
.
After
supper
(
we
’
re
back
to
normal
)
Caliban
handed
me
The
Catcher
in
the
Rye
and
said
,
I
’
ve
read
it
.
