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- Джон Фоулз
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- Волхв
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- Стр. 58/136
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I
read
the
Greek
poems
and
saw
them
for
what
they
were
;
undergraduate
pieces
,
without
rhythm
,
without
structure
,
their
banalities
of
perception
clumsily
concealed
under
an
impasto
of
lush
rhetoric
.
In
horror
I
turned
to
other
poems
I
had
written
—
at
Oxford
,
in
S
—
.
They
were
no
better
;
even
worse
.
The
truth
rushed
down
on
me
like
a
burying
avalanche
.
I
was
not
a
poet
.
I
felt
no
consolation
in
this
knowledge
,
but
only
a
red
anger
that
evolution
could
allow
such
sensitivity
and
such
inadequacy
to
co
-
exist
in
the
same
mind
.
In
one
ego
,
my
ego
,
screaming
like
a
hare
caught
in
a
gin
.
Taking
all
the
poems
I
had
ever
written
,
page
by
slow
page
,
I
tore
each
one
into
tiny
fragments
,
till
my
fingers
ached
and
the
basket
overflowed
.
Then
I
went
for
a
walk
in
the
hills
,
even
though
it
was
very
cold
and
began
to
pour
with
rain
.
The
whole
world
had
finally
declared
itself
against
me
.
Here
was
something
I
could
not
shrug
off
,
an
absolute
condemnation
.
One
aspect
of
even
my
worst
experiences
had
always
been
that
they
were
fuel
,
ore
;
finally
utilizable
,
not
all
waste
and
suffering
.
Poetry
had
always
seemed
something
I
could
turn
to
in
need
;
an
emergency
exit
,
a
life
buoy
,
as
well
as
a
justification
.
Now
I
was
in
the
sea
,
and
the
life
buoy
had
sunk
,
like
lead
.
It
was
an
effort
not
to
cry
tears
of
self
-
pity
.
My
face
set
into
a
stiff
fierce
mask
,
like
that
of
an
acroterion
.
I
walked
for
hours
and
I
was
in
hell
.
One
kind
of
person
is
engaged
in
society
without
realizing
it
;
another
kind
engages
in
society
by
controlling
it
.
The
one
is
a
gear
,
a
cog
,
and
the
other
an
engineer
,
a
driver
.
But
a
person
who
has
opted
out
has
only
his
ability
to
express
his
disengagement
between
his
existence
and
nothingness
.
Not
cogito
,
but
scribo
,
pingo
,
ergo
sum
.
For
days
after
I
felt
myself
filled
with
nothingness
;
with
something
more
than
the
old
physical
and
social
loneliness
—
a
metaphysical
sense
of
being
marooned
.
It
was
something
almost
tangible
,
like
cancer
or
tuberculosis
.
Then
one
day
not
a
week
later
it
was
tangible
.
I
woke
up
one
morning
and
found
I
had
two
small
sores
.
I
had
been
half
expecting
them
.
In
late
February
I
had
gone
to
Athens
,
and
paid
another
visit
to
the
house
in
Kephisia
.
I
knew
I
had
taken
a
risk
.
At
the
time
it
hadn
’
t
seemed
to
matter
.
For
a
day
I
was
too
shocked
to
act
.
There
were
two
doctors
in
the
village
:
one
active
,
who
had
the
school
in
his
practice
,
and
one
,
a
taciturn
old
Rumanian
,
who
though
semi
-
retired
still
took
a
few
patients
.
The
school
doctor
was
in
and
out
of
the
common
room
continually
.
I
couldn
’
t
go
to
him
.
So
I
went
to
see
Dr
.
Patarescu
.
He
looked
at
the
sores
,
and
then
at
me
,
and
shrugged
.
"
Félicitations
,
"
he
said
.
"
C
’
est
…
"
