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- Джон Фоулз
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- Коллекционер
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I
don
’
t
think
about
now
.
Today
.
I
know
I
’
m
going
to
escape
.
I
feel
it
.
I
can
’
t
explain
.
Caliban
can
never
win
against
me
.
I
think
of
paintings
I
shall
do
.
Last
night
I
thought
of
one
,
it
was
a
sort
of
butter
-
yellow
(
farm
-
butter
-
yellow
)
field
rising
to
a
white
luminous
sky
and
the
sun
just
rising
.
A
strange
rose
-
pink
,
I
knew
it
exactly
,
full
of
hushed
stillness
,
the
beginning
of
things
,
lark
-
song
without
larks
.
Two
strange
contradictory
dreams
.
The
first
one
was
very
simple
.
I
was
walking
in
the
fields
,
I
don
’
t
know
who
I
was
with
,
but
it
was
someone
I
liked
very
much
,
a
man
.
G
.
P
.
perhaps
.
The
sun
shining
on
young
corn
.
And
suddenly
we
saw
swallows
flying
low
over
the
corn
.
I
could
see
their
backs
gleaming
,
like
dark
blue
silk
.
They
were
very
low
,
twittering
all
around
us
,
all
flying
in
the
same
direction
,
low
and
happy
.
And
I
felt
full
of
happiness
.
I
said
,
how
extraordinary
,
look
at
the
swallows
.
It
was
very
simple
,
the
unexpected
swallows
and
the
sun
and
the
green
corn
.
I
was
filled
with
happiness
.
The
purest
spring
feeling
.
Then
I
woke
up
.
Later
I
had
another
dream
.
I
was
at
the
window
on
the
first
floor
of
a
large
house
(
Ladymont
?
)
and
there
was
a
black
horse
below
.
It
was
angry
,
but
I
felt
safe
because
it
was
below
and
outside
.
But
suddenly
it
turned
and
galloped
at
the
house
and
to
my
horror
it
leapt
gigantically
up
and
straight
at
me
with
bared
teeth
.
It
came
crashing
through
the
window
.
Even
then
I
thought
,
it
will
kill
itself
,
I
am
safe
.
But
it
sprawled
and
flailed
round
in
the
small
room
and
I
suddenly
realized
it
was
going
to
attack
me
.
There
was
nowhere
to
escape
.
I
woke
again
,
I
had
to
put
on
the
light
.
It
was
violence
.
It
was
all
I
hate
and
all
I
fear
.
December
4th
I
shan
’
t
go
on
keeping
a
diary
when
I
leave
here
.
It
’
s
not
healthy
.
It
keeps
me
sane
down
here
,
gives
me
somebody
to
talk
to
.
But
it
’
s
vain
.
You
write
what
you
want
to
hear
.
