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- Джон Фоулз
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It
’
s
funny
.
You
don
’
t
do
that
when
you
draw
yourself
.
No
temptation
to
cheat
.
It
’
s
sick
,
sick
,
all
this
thinking
about
me
.
Morbid
.
I
long
to
paint
and
paint
other
things
.
Fields
,
southern
houses
,
landscapes
,
vast
wide
-
open
things
in
vast
wide
-
open
light
.
It
’
s
what
I
’
ve
been
doing
today
.
Moods
of
light
recalled
from
Spain
.
Ochre
walls
burnt
white
in
the
sunlight
.
The
walls
of
Avila
.
Cordoba
courtyards
.
I
don
’
t
try
to
reproduce
the
place
,
but
the
light
of
the
place
.
Fiat
lux
.
I
’
ve
been
playing
the
Modern
Jazz
Quartet
’
s
records
over
and
over
again
.
There
’
s
no
night
in
their
music
,
no
smoky
dives
.
Bursts
and
sparkles
and
little
fizzes
of
light
,
starlight
,
and
sometimes
high
noon
,
tremendous
everywhere
light
,
like
chandeliers
of
diamonds
floating
in
the
sky
.
December
5th
G
.
P
.
The
Rape
of
Intelligence
.
By
the
moneyed
masses
,
the
New
People
.
