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"
I
’
ll
make
time
if
it
’
s
important
.
"
"
Will
you
come
?
"
"
I
will
.
"
"
All
right
.
I
’
ll
go
up
now
and
turn
on
the
light
.
"
"
Be
with
you
in
a
couple
of
tie
-
tying
moments
.
"
His
footsteps
sounded
hollowly
on
the
uncarpeted
attic
stairs
.
If
I
think
about
it
while
I
tie
a
bow
,
the
tie
has
a
rotating
tendency
,
but
if
I
let
my
fingers
take
their
own
way
,
they
do
it
perfectly
.
I
commissioned
my
fingers
and
thought
about
the
attic
of
the
old
Hawley
house
,
my
house
,
my
attic
.
It
is
not
a
dark
and
spidery
prison
for
the
broken
and
the
abandoned
.
It
has
windows
with
small
panes
so
old
that
the
light
comes
through
lavender
and
the
outside
is
wavery
—
like
a
world
seen
through
water
.
The
books
stored
there
are
not
waiting
to
be
thrown
out
or
given
to
the
Seamen
’
s
Institute
.
They
sit
comfortably
on
their
shelves
waiting
to
be
rediscovered
.
And
the
chairs
,
some
unfashionable
for
a
time
,
some
rump
-
sprung
,
are
large
and
soft
.
It
is
not
a
dusty
place
either
.
Housecleaning
is
attic
-
cleaning
also
,
and
since
it
is
mostly
closed
away
,
dust
does
not
enter
.
I
remember
as
a
child
scrambling
among
the
brilliants
of
books
or
,
battered
with
agonies
,
or
in
the
spectral
half
-
life
that
requires
loneliness
,
retiring
to
the
attic
,
to
lie
curled
in
a
great
body
-
molded
chair
in
the
violet
-
lavender
light
from
the
window
.
There
I
could
study
the
big
adze
-
squared
beams
that
support
the
roof
—
see
how
they
are
mortised
one
into
another
and
pinned
in
place
with
oaken
dowels
.
When
it
rains
from
rustling
drip
to
roar
on
the
roof
,
it
is
a
fine
secure
place
.
Then
the
books
,
tinted
with
light
,
the
picture
books
of
children
grown
,
seeded
,
and
gone
;
Chatterboxes
and
the
Rollo
series
;
a
thousand
acts
of
God
—
Fire
,
Flood
,
Tidal
Waves
,
Earthquakes
—
all
fully
illustrated
;
the
Gustave
Doré
Hell
,
with
Dante
’
s
squared
cantos
like
bricks
between
;
and
the
heartbreaking
stories
of
Hans
Christian
Andersen
,
the
blood
-
chilling
violence
and
cruelty
of
the
Grimm
Brothers
,
the
Morte
d
’
Arthur
of
majesty
with
drawings
by
Aubrey
Beardsley
,
a
sickly
,
warped
creature
,
a
strange
choice
to
illustrate
great
,
manly
Malory
.
I
remember
thinking
how
wise
a
man
was
H
.
C
.
Andersen
.
The
king
told
his
secrets
down
a
well
,
and
his
secrets
were
safe
.
A
man
who
tells
secrets
or
stories
must
think
of
who
is
hearing
or
reading
,
for
a
story
has
as
many
versions
as
it
has
readers
.
Everyone
takes
what
he
wants
or
can
from
it
and
thus
changes
it
to
his
measure
.
Some
pick
out
parts
and
reject
the
rest
,
some
strain
the
story
through
their
mesh
of
prejudice
,
some
paint
it
with
their
own
delight
.
A
story
must
have
some
points
of
contact
with
the
reader
to
make
him
feel
at
home
in
it
.
Only
then
can
he
accept
wonders
.
The
tale
I
may
tell
to
Allen
must
be
differently
built
from
the
same
tale
told
to
my
Mary
,
and
that
in
turn
shaped
to
fit
Marullo
if
Marullo
is
to
join
it
.
But
perhaps
the
Well
of
Hosay
Andersen
is
best
.
It
only
receives
,
and
the
echo
it
gives
back
is
quiet
and
soon
over
.
I
guess
we
’
re
all
,
or
most
of
us
,
the
wards
of
that
nineteenth
-
century
science
which
denied
existence
to
anything
it
could
not
measure
or
explain
.
