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- Джон Фоулз
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- Волхв
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You
will
be
different
for
me
.
Always
.
That
very
first
letter
I
wrote
the
day
you
left
.
If
you
could
only
understand
.
I
wrote
a
letter
in
reply
to
say
that
I
had
been
expecting
her
letter
,
that
she
was
perfectly
free
.
But
I
tore
it
up
.
I
realized
that
if
anything
might
hurt
her
,
silence
would
.
I
wanted
to
hurt
her
.
I
was
hopelessly
unhappy
in
those
last
few
days
before
the
Christmas
holidays
.
I
began
to
loathe
the
school
irrationally
;
the
way
it
worked
and
the
way
it
was
planted
,
blind
and
prisonlike
,
in
the
heart
of
the
divine
landscape
.
When
Alison
’
s
letters
stopped
,
I
was
also
increasingly
isolated
in
a
more
conventional
way
.
The
outer
world
,
England
,
London
,
became
absurdly
and
sometimes
terrifyingly
unreal
.
The
two
or
three
Oxford
friends
I
had
kept
up
a
spasmodic
correspondence
with
sank
beneath
the
horizon
.
I
used
to
hear
the
B
.
B
.
C
.
Overseas
Service
from
time
to
time
,
but
the
news
broadcasts
seemed
to
come
from
the
moon
,
and
concerned
situations
and
a
society
I
no
longer
belonged
to
,
while
the
newspapers
from
England
became
more
and
more
like
their
own
One
hundred
years
ago
today
features
.
The
whole
island
seemed
to
feel
this
exile
from
contemporary
reality
.
The
harbor
quays
were
always
crowded
for
hours
before
the
daily
boat
from
Athens
appeared
on
the
northeastern
horizon
;
even
though
people
knew
that
it
would
stop
for
only
a
few
minutes
,
that
probably
not
five
passengers
would
get
off
,
or
five
get
on
,
they
had
to
watch
.
It
was
as
if
we
were
all
convicts
still
hoping
faintly
for
a
reprieve
.
Yet
the
island
was
so
beautiful
.
Near
Christmas
the
weather
became
wild
and
cold
.
Enormous
seas
of
pounding
Antwerp
blue
roared
on
the
shingle
of
the
school
beaches
.
The
mountains
on
the
mainland
took
snow
,
and
magnificent
white
shoulders
out
of
Hokusai
stood
west
and
north
across
the
angry
water
.
The
hills
became
even
barer
,
even
more
silent
.
I
often
started
off
on
a
walk
out
of
sheer
boredom
,
but
there
were
always
new
solitudes
,
new
places
.
Yet
in
the
end
this
unflawed
natural
world
became
intimidating
.
I
seemed
to
have
no
place
in
it
,
I
could
not
use
it
and
I
was
not
made
for
it
.
I
was
a
townsman
;
and
I
was
rootless
.
I
rejected
my
own
age
,
yet
could
not
sink
back
into
an
older
.
So
I
ended
like
Sciron
,
a
mid
-
air
man
.
The
Christmas
holidays
came
.
I
went
off
to
travel
around
the
Peloponnesus
.
I
had
to
be
alone
,
to
give
myself
a
snatch
of
life
away
from
the
school
.
If
Alison
had
been
free
,
I
would
have
flown
back
to
England
to
meet
her
.
I
had
thoughts
of
resigning
;
but
then
that
seemed
a
retreat
,
another
failure
,
and
I
told
myself
that
things
would
be
better
once
spring
began
.
So
I
had
Christmas
alone
in
Sparta
and
I
saw
the
New
Year
in
alone
in
Pyrgos
.
I
had
a
day
in
Athens
before
I
caught
the
boat
back
to
Phraxos
,
and
visited
the
brothel
again
.
I
thought
very
little
about
Alison
,
but
I
felt
about
her
;
that
is
,
I
tried
to
erase
her
,
and
failed
.
I
had
days
when
I
thought
I
could
stay
celibate
for
the
rest
of
my
life
—
monastic
days
;
and
days
when
I
ached
for
a
conversable
girl
.
The
island
women
were
of
Albanian
stock
,
dour
and
sallow
-
faced
,
and
about
as
seducible
as
a
Free
Church
congregation
.
Much
more
tempting
were
some
of
the
boys
,
possessors
of
an
olive
grace
and
a
sharp
individuality
that
made
them
very
different
from
their
stereotyped
English
private
school
equivalents
—
those
uniformed
pink
termites
out
of
the
Arnold
mould
.
I
had
Gidelike
moments
,
but
they
were
not
reciprocated
,
because
nowhere
is
pederasty
more
abominated
than
in
bourgeois
Greece
;
there
at
least
Arnold
would
have
felt
thoroughly
at
home
.
Besides
,
I
wasn
’
t
queer
;
I
simply
understood
(
nailing
a
lie
in
my
own
education
)
how
being
queer
might
have
its
consolations
.
It
was
not
only
the
solitude
—
it
was
Greece
.
It
made
conventional
English
notions
of
what
was
moral
and
immoral
ridiculous
;
whether
or
not
I
did
the
socially
unforgivable
seemed
in
itself
merely
a
matter
of
appetite
,
like
smoking
or
not
smoking
a
new
brand
of
cigarette
—
as
trivial
as
that
,
from
a
moral
point
of
view
.
Goodness
and
beauty
may
be
separable
in
the
north
,
but
not
in
Greece
.
Between
skin
and
skin
there
is
only
light
.
And
there
was
my
poetry
.
I
had
begun
to
write
poems
about
the
island
,
about
Greece
,
that
seemed
to
me
philosophically
profound
and
technically
exciting
.
I
dreamt
more
and
more
of
literary
success
.
I
spent
hours
staring
at
the
wall
of
my
room
,
imagining
reviews
,
letters
written
to
me
by
celebrated
fellow
poets
,
fame
and
praise
and
still
more
fame
.
I
did
not
at
that
time
know
Emily
Dickinson
’
s
great
definition
,
her
Publication
is
not
the
business
of
poets
;
being
a
poet
is
all
,
being
known
as
a
poet
is
nothing
.
The
onanistic
literary
picture
of
myself
I
caressed
up
out
of
reality
began
to
dominate
my
life
.
The
school
became
a
convenient
scapegoat
—
how
could
one
compose
flawless
verse
if
one
was
surrounded
by
futile
routine
?
But
then
,
one
bleak
March
Sunday
,
the
scales
dropped
from
my
eyes
.
