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- Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд
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- Стр. 190/351
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"
You
are
sick
,
"
he
said
mechanically
.
"
Then
what
was
it
I
had
almost
found
?
"
"
A
greater
sickness
.
"
"
That
’
s
all
?
"
"
That
’
s
all
.
"
With
disgust
he
heard
himself
lying
,
but
here
and
now
the
vastness
of
the
subject
could
only
be
compressed
into
a
lie
.
"
Outside
of
that
there
’
s
only
confusion
and
chaos
.
I
won
’
t
lecture
to
you
—
we
have
too
acute
a
realization
of
your
physical
suffering
.
But
it
’
s
only
by
meeting
the
problems
of
every
day
,
no
matter
how
trifling
and
boring
they
seem
,
that
you
can
make
things
drop
back
into
place
again
.
After
that
—
perhaps
you
’
ll
be
able
again
to
examine
—
"
He
had
slowed
up
to
avoid
the
inevitable
end
of
his
thought
:
"
—
the
frontiers
of
consciousness
.
"
The
frontiers
that
artists
must
explore
were
not
for
her
,
ever
.
She
was
fine
-
spun
,
inbred
—
eventually
she
might
find
rest
in
some
quiet
mysticism
.
Exploration
was
for
those
with
a
measure
of
peasant
blood
,
those
with
big
thighs
and
thick
ankles
who
could
take
punishment
as
they
took
bread
and
salt
,
on
every
inch
of
flesh
and
spirit
.
—
Not
for
you
,
he
almost
said
.
It
’
s
too
tough
a
game
for
you
.
Yet
in
the
awful
majesty
of
her
pain
he
went
out
to
her
unreservedly
,
almost
sexually
.
He
wanted
to
gather
her
up
in
his
arms
,
as
he
so
often
had
Nicole
,
and
cherish
even
her
mistakes
,
so
deeply
were
they
part
of
her
.
The
orange
light
through
the
drawn
blind
,
the
sarcophagus
of
her
figure
on
the
bed
,
the
spot
of
face
,
the
voice
searching
the
vacuity
of
her
illness
and
finding
only
remote
abstractions
.
As
he
arose
the
tears
fled
lava
-
like
into
her
bandages
.
