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With
intermittent
shocks
,
sudden
as
the
springs
of
a
tiger
,
life
emerges
heaving
its
dark
crest
from
the
sea
.
It
is
to
this
we
are
attached
;
it
is
to
this
we
are
bound
,
as
bodies
to
wild
horses
.
And
yet
we
have
invented
devices
for
filling
up
the
crevices
and
disguising
these
fissures
.
Here
is
the
ticket
collector
.
Here
are
two
men
;
three
women
;
there
is
a
cat
in
a
basket
;
myself
with
my
elbow
on
the
window-sill
--
this
is
here
and
now
.
We
draw
on
,
we
make
off
,
through
whispering
fields
of
golden
corn
.
Women
in
the
fields
are
surprised
to
be
left
behind
there
,
hoeing
.
The
train
now
stamps
heavily
,
breathes
stertorously
,
as
it
climbs
up
and
up
.
At
last
we
are
on
the
top
of
the
moor
.
Only
a
few
wild
sheep
live
here
;
a
few
shaggy
ponies
;
yet
we
are
provided
with
every
comfort
;
with
tables
to
hold
our
newspapers
,
with
rings
to
hold
our
tumblers
.
We
come
carrying
these
appliances
with
us
over
the
top
of
the
moor
.
Now
we
are
on
the
summit
.
Silence
will
close
behind
us
.
If
I
look
back
over
that
bald
head
,
I
can
see
silence
already
closing
and
the
shadows
of
clouds
chasing
each
other
over
the
empty
moor
;
silence
closes
over
our
transient
passage
.
This
I
say
is
the
present
moment
;
this
is
the
first
day
of
the
summer
holidays
.
This
is
part
of
the
emerging
monster
to
whom
we
are
attached
.
'
'N
ow
we
are
off
,
'
said
Louis
.
'N
ow
I
hang
suspended
without
attachments
.
We
are
nowhere
.
We
are
passing
through
England
in
a
train
.
England
slips
by
the
window
,
always
changing
from
hill
to
wood
,
from
rivers
and
willows
to
towns
again
.
And
I
have
no
firm
ground
to
which
I
go
.
Bernard
and
Neville
,
Percival
,
Archie
,
Larpent
and
Baker
go
to
Oxford
or
Cambridge
,
to
Edinburgh
,
Rome
,
Paris
,
Berlin
,
or
to
some
American
University
.
I
go
vaguely
,
to
make
money
vaguely
.
Therefore
a
poignant
shadow
,
a
keen
accent
,
falls
on
these
golden
bristles
,
on
these
poppy-red
fields
,
this
flowing
corn
that
never
overflows
its
boundaries
;
but
runs
rippling
to
the
edge
.
This
is
the
first
day
of
a
new
life
,
another
spoke
of
the
rising
wheel
.
But
my
body
passes
vagrant
as
a
bird
's
shadow
.
I
should
be
transient
as
the
shadow
on
the
meadow
,
soon
fading
,
soon
darkening
and
dying
there
where
it
meets
the
wood
,
were
it
not
that
I
coerce
my
brain
to
form
in
my
forehead
;
I
force
myself
to
state
,
if
only
in
one
line
of
unwritten
poetry
,
this
moment
;
to
mark
this
inch
in
the
long
,
long
history
that
began
in
Egypt
,
in
the
time
of
the
Pharaohs
,
when
women
carried
red
pitchers
to
the
Nile
.
I
seem
already
to
have
lived
many
thousand
years
.
But
if
I
now
shut
my
eyes
,
if
I
fail
to
realize
the
meeting-place
of
past
and
present
,
that
I
sit
in
a
third-class
railway
carriage
full
of
boys
going
home
for
the
holidays
,
human
history
is
defrauded
of
a
moment
's
vision
.
Its
eye
,
that
would
see
through
me
,
shuts
--
if
I
sleep
now
,
through
slovenliness
,
or
cowardice
,
burying
myself
in
the
past
,
in
the
dark
;
or
acquiesce
,
as
Bernard
acquiesces
,
telling
stories
;
or
boast
,
as
Percival
,
Archie
,
John
,
Walter
,
Lathom
,
Larpent
,
Roper
,
Smith
boast
--
the
names
are
the
same
always
,
the
names
of
the
boasting
boys
.
They
are
all
boasting
,
all
talking
,
except
Neville
,
who
slips
a
look
occasionally
over
the
edge
of
a
French
novel
,
and
so
will
always
slip
into
cushioned
firelit
rooms
,
with
many
books
and
one
friend
,
while
I
tilt
on
an
office
chair
behind
a
counter
.
Then
I
shall
grow
bitter
and
mock
at
them
.
I
shall
envy
them
their
continuance
down
the
safe
traditional
ways
under
the
shade
of
old
yew
trees
while
I
consort
with
cockneys
and
clerks
,
and
tap
the
pavements
of
the
city
.
'
But
now
disembodied
,
passing
over
fields
without
lodgment
--
(
there
is
a
river
;
a
man
fishes
;
there
is
a
spire
,
there
is
the
village
street
with
its
bow-windowed
inn
)
--
all
is
dreamlike
and
dim
to
me
.
These
hard
thoughts
,
this
envy
,
this
bitterness
,
make
no
lodgment
in
me
.
I
am
the
ghost
of
Louis
,
an
ephemeral
passer-by
,
in
whose
mind
dreams
have
power
,
and
garden
sounds
when
in
the
early
morning
petals
float
on
fathomless
depths
and
the
birds
sing
.
I
dash
and
sprinkle
myself
with
the
bright
waters
of
childhood
.
Its
thin
veil
quivers
.
But
the
chained
beast
stamps
and
stamps
on
the
shore
.
'
'
Louis
and
Neville
,
'
said
Bernard
,
'
both
sit
silent
.
Both
are
absorbed
.
Both
feel
the
presence
of
other
people
as
a
separating
wall
.
But
if
I
find
myself
in
company
with
other
people
,
words
at
once
make
smoke
rings
--
see
how
phrases
at
once
begin
to
wreathe
off
my
lips
.
It
seems
that
a
match
is
set
to
a
fire
;
something
burns
.
An
elderly
and
apparently
prosperous
man
,
a
traveller
,
now
gets
in
.
And
I
at
once
wish
to
approach
him
;
I
instinctively
dislike
the
sense
of
his
presence
,
cold
,
unassimilated
,
among
us
.
I
do
not
believe
in
separation
.
We
are
not
single
.
Also
I
wish
to
add
to
my
collection
of
valuable
observations
upon
the
true
nature
of
human
life
.
My
book
will
certainly
run
to
many
volumes
,
embracing
every
known
variety
of
man
and
woman
.
I
fill
my
mind
with
whatever
happens
to
be
the
contents
of
a
room
or
a
railway
carriage
as
one
fills
a
fountain-pen
in
an
inkpot
.
I
have
a
steady
unquenchable
thirst
.
Now
I
feel
by
imperceptible
signs
,
which
I
can
not
yet
interpret
but
will
later
,
that
his
defiance
is
about
to
thaw
.
His
solitude
shows
signs
of
cracking
.
He
has
passed
a
remark
about
a
country
house
.
A
smoke
ring
issues
from
my
lips
(
about
crops
)
and
circles
him
,
bringing
him
into
contact
.
The
human
voice
has
a
disarming
quality
--
(
we
are
not
single
,
we
are
one
)
.
As
we
exchange
these
few
but
amiable
remarks
about
country
houses
,
I
furbish
him
up
and
make
him
concrete
.
He
is
indulgent
as
a
husband
but
not
faithful
;
a
small
builder
who
employs
a
few
men
.
In
local
society
he
is
important
;
is
already
a
councillor
,
and
perhaps
in
time
will
be
mayor
.
He
wears
a
large
ornament
,
like
a
double
tooth
torn
up
by
the
roots
,
made
of
coral
,
hanging
at
his
watch-chain
.
Walter
J.
Trumble
is
the
sort
of
name
that
would
fit
him
.
He
has
been
in
America
,
on
a
business
trip
with
his
wife
,
and
a
double
room
in
a
smallish
hotel
cost
him
a
whole
month
's
wages
.
His
front
tooth
is
stopped
with
gold
.
'
The
fact
is
that
I
have
little
aptitude
for
reflection
.
I
require
the
concrete
in
everything
.
It
is
so
only
that
I
lay
hands
upon
the
world
.
A
good
phrase
,
however
,
seems
to
me
to
have
an
independent
existence
.
Yet
I
think
it
is
likely
that
the
best
are
made
in
solitude
.
They
require
some
final
refrigeration
which
I
can
not
give
them
,
dabbling
always
in
warm
soluble
words
.
My
method
,
nevertheless
,
has
certain
advantages
over
theirs
.
Neville
is
repelled
by
the
grossness
of
Trumble
.
Louis
,
glancing
,
tripping
with
the
high
step
of
a
disdainful
crane
,
picks
up
words
as
if
in
sugar-tongs
.
It
is
true
that
his
eyes
--
wild
,
laughing
,
yet
desperate
--
express
something
that
we
have
not
gauged
.
There
is
about
both
Neville
and
Louis
a
precision
,
an
exactitude
,
that
I
admire
and
shall
never
possess
.
Now
I
begin
to
be
aware
that
action
is
demanded
.
We
approach
a
junction
;
at
a
junction
I
have
to
change
.
I
have
to
board
a
train
for
Edinburgh
.
I
can
not
precisely
lay
fingers
on
this
fact
--
it
lodges
loosely
among
my
thoughts
like
a
button
,
like
a
small
coin
.
Here
is
the
jolly
old
boy
who
collects
tickets
.
I
had
one
--
I
had
one
certainly
.
But
it
does
not
matter
.
Either
I
shall
find
it
,
or
I
shall
not
find
it
.
I
examine
my
note-case
.
I
look
in
all
my
pockets
.
These
are
the
things
that
for
ever
interrupt
the
process
upon
which
I
am
eternally
engaged
of
finding
some
perfect
phrase
that
fits
this
very
moment
exactly
.
'
'
Bernard
has
gone
,
'
said
Neville
,
'
without
a
ticket
.
He
has
escaped
us
,
making
a
phrase
,
waving
his
hand
.
He
talked
as
easily
to
the
horse-breeder
or
to
the
plumber
as
to
us
.
The
plumber
accepted
him
with
devotion
.
"
If
he
had
a
son
like
that
,
"
he
was
thinking
,
"
he
would
manage
to
send
him
to
Oxford
.
