Волны/The waves (Вирджиния Вульф). Страница 22 из 81

Понятно

Понятно

Для того чтобы воспользоваться закладками, необходимо

Войти или зарегистрироваться

Отмена

Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо

Войти или зарегистрироваться

Отмена

Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа

Купить PRO-доступ

Отмена

Предыдущая страница

'

The

truth

is

that

I

need

the

stimulus

of

other

people

.

Alone

,

over

my

dead

fire

,

I

tend

to

see

the

thin

places

in

my

own

stories

.

The

real

novelist

,

the

perfectly

simple

human

being

,

could

go

on

,

indefinitely

,

imagining

.

He

would

not

integrate

,

as

I

do

.

He

would

not

have

this

devastating

sense

of

grey

ashes

in

a

burnt-out

grate

.

Some

blind

flaps

in

my

eyes

.

Everything

becomes

impervious

.

I

cease

to

invent

.

'

Let

me

recollect

.

It

has

been

on

the

whole

a

good

day

.

The

drop

that

forms

on

the

roof

of

the

soul

in

the

evening

is

round

,

many-coloured

.

There

was

the

morning

,

fine

;

there

was

the

afternoon

,

walking

.

I

like

views

of

spires

across

grey

fields

.

I

like

glimpses

between

people

's

shoulders

.

Things

kept

popping

into

my

head

.

I

was

imaginative

,

subtle

.

After

dinner

,

I

was

dramatic

.

I

put

into

concrete

form

many

things

that

we

had

dimly

observed

about

our

common

friends

.

I

made

my

transitions

easily

.

But

now

let

me

ask

myself

the

final

question

,

as

I

sit

over

this

grey

fire

,

with

its

naked

promontories

of

black

coal

,

which

of

these

people

am

I

?

It

depends

so

much

upon

the

room

.

When

I

say

to

myself

,

"

Bernard

"

,

who

comes

?

A

faithful

,

sardonic

man

,

disillusioned

,

but

not

embittered

.

A

man

of

no

particular

age

or

calling

.

Myself

,

merely

.

It

is

he

who

now

takes

the

poker

and

rattles

the

cinders

so

that

they

fall

in

showers

through

the

grate

.

"

Lord

,

"

he

says

to

himself

,

watching

them

fall

,

"

what

a

pother

!

"

and

then

he

adds

,

lugubriously

,

but

with

some

sense

of

consolation

,

"

Mrs

Moffat

will

come

and

sweep

it

all

up

--

"

I

fancy

I

shall

often

repeat

to

myself

that

phrase

,

as

I

rattle

and

bang

through

life

,

hitting

first

this

side

of

the

carriage

,

then

the

other

,

"

Oh

,

yes

,

Mrs

Moffat

will

come

and

sweep

it

all

up

.

"

And

so

to

bed

.

'

Отключить рекламу

'

In

a

world

which

contains

the

present

moment

,

'

said

Neville

,

'

why

discriminate

?

Nothing

should

be

named

lest

by

so

doing

we

change

it

.

Let

it

exist

,

this

bank

,

this

beauty

,

and

I

,

for

one

instant

,

steeped

in

pleasure

.

The

sun

is

hot

.

I

see

the

river

.

I

see

trees

specked

and

burnt

in

the

autumn

sunlight

.

Boats

float

past

,

through

the

red

,

through

the

green

.

Far

away

a

bell

tolls

,

but

not

for

death

.

There

are

bells

that

ring

for

life

.

A

leaf

falls

,

from

joy

.

Oh

,

I

am

in

love

with

life

!

Look

how

the

willow

shoots

its

fine

sprays

into

the

air

!

Look

how

through

them

a

boat

passes

,

filled

with

indolent

,

with

unconscious

,

with

powerful

young

men

.

They

are

listening

to

the

gramophone

;

they

are

eating

fruit

out

of

paper

bags

.

They

are

tossing

the

skins

of

bananas

,

which

then

sink

eel-like

,

into

the

river

.

All

they

do

is

beautiful

.

There

are

cruets

behind

them

and

ornaments

;

their

rooms

are

full

of

oars

and

oleographs

but

they

have

turned

all

to

beauty

.

That

boat

passes

under

the

bridge

.

Another

comes

.

Then

another

.

That

is

Percival

,

lounging

on

the

cushions

,

monolithic

,

in

giant

repose

.

No

,

it

is

only

one

of

his

satellites

,

imitating

his

monolithic

,

his

giant

repose

.

He

alone

is

unconscious

of

their

tricks

,

and

when

he

catches

them

at

it

he

buffets

them

good-humouredly

with

a

blow

of

his

paw

.

They

,

too

,

have

passed

under

the

bridge

through

'

the

fountains

of

the

pendant

trees

'

,

through

its

fine

strokes

of

yellow

and

plum

colour

.

The

breeze

stirs

;

the

curtain

quivers

;

I

see

behind

the

leaves

the

grave

,

yet

eternally

joyous

buildings

,

which

seem

porous

,

not

gravid

;

light

,

though

set

so

immemorially

on

the

ancient

turf

.

Now

begins

to

rise

in

me

the

familiar

rhythm

;

words

that

have

lain

dormant

now

lift

,

now

toss

their

crests

,

and

fall

and

rise

,

and

fall

and

rise

again

.

I

am

a

poet

,

yes

.

Surely

I

am

a

great

poet

.

Boats

and

youth

passing

and

distant

trees

,

"

the

falling

fountains

of

the

pendant

trees

"

.

I

see

it

all

.

I

feel

it

all

.

I

am

inspired

.

My

eyes

fill

with

tears

.

Yet

even

as

I

feel

this

,

I

lash

my

frenzy

higher

and

higher

.

It

foams

.

It

becomes

artificial

,

insincere

.

Words

and

words

and

words

,

how

they

gallop

--

how

they

lash

their

long

manes

and

tails

,

but

for

some

fault

in

me

I

can

not

give

myself

to

their

backs

;

I

can

not

fly

with

them

,

scattering

women

and

string

bags

.

There

is

some

flaw

in

me

--

some

fatal

hesitancy

,

which

,

if

I

pass

it

over

,

turns

to

foam

and

falsity

.

Yet

it

is

incredible

that

I

should

not

be

a

great

poet

.

What

did

I

write

last

night

if

it

was

not

good

poetry

?

Am

I

too

fast

,

too

facile

?

I

do

not

know

.

I

do

not

know

myself

sometimes

,

or

how

to

measure

and

name

and

count

out

the

grains

that

make

me

what

I

am

.

'S

omething

now

leaves

me

;

something

goes

from

me

to

meet

that

figure

who

is

coming

,

and

assures

me

that

I

know

him

before

I

see

who

it

is

.

How

curiously

one

is

changed

by

the

addition

,

even

at

a

distance

,

of

a

friend

.

How

useful

an

office

one

's

friends

perform

when

they

recall

us

.

Yet

how

painful

to

be

recalled

,

to

be

mitigated

,

to

have

one

's

self

adulterated

,

mixed

up

,

become

part

of

another

.

As

he

approaches

I

become

not

myself

but

Neville

mixed

with

somebody

--

with

whom

?

--

with

Bernard

?

Yes

,

it

is

Bernard

,

and

it

is

to

Bernard

that

I

shall

put

the

question

,

Who

am

I

?

'

Отключить рекламу

'

How

strange

,

'

said

Bernard

,

'

the

willow

looks

seen

together

.

I

was

Byron

,

and

the

tree

was

Byron

's

tree

,

lachrymose

,

down-showering

,

lamenting

.

Now

that

we

look

at

the

tree

together

,

it

has

a

combined

look

,

each

branch

distinct

,

and

I

will

tell

you

what

I

feel

,

under

the

compulsion

of

your

clarity

.

'

I

feel

your

disapproval

,

I

feel

your

force

.

I

become

,

with

you

,

an

untidy

,

an

impulsive

human

being

whose

bandanna

handkerchief

is

for

ever

stained

with

the

grease

of

crumpets

.

Yes

,

I

hold

Gray

's

Elegy

in

one

hand

;

with

the

other

I

scoop

out

the

bottom

crumpet

,

that

has

absorbed

all

the

butter

and

sticks

to

the

bottom

of

the

plate

.

This

offends

you

;

I

feel

your

distress

acutely

.

Inspired

by

it

and

anxious

to

regain

your

good

opinion

,

I

proceed

to

tell

you

how

I

have

just

pulled

Percival

out

of

bed

;

I

describe

his

slippers

,

his

table

,

his

guttered

candle

;

his

surly

and

complaining

accents

as

I

pull

the

blankets

off

his

feet

;

he

burrowing

like

some

vast

cocoon

meanwhile

.

I

describe

all

this

in

such

a

way

that

,

centred

as

you

are

upon

some

private

sorrow

(

for

a

hooded

shape

presides

over

our

encounter

)

,

you

give

way

,

you

laugh

and

delight

in

me

.

My

charm

and

flow

of

language

,

unexpected

and

spontaneous

as

it

is

,

delights

me

too

.

I

am

astonished

,

as

I

draw

the

veil

off

things

with

words

,

how

much

,

how

infinitely

more

than

I

can

say

,

I

have

observed

.

More

and

more

bubbles

into

my

mind

as

I

talk

,

images

and

images

.

This

,

I

say

to

myself

,

is

what

I

need

;

why

,

I

ask

,

can

I

not

finish

the

letter

that

I

am

writing

?

For

my

room

is

always

scattered

with

unfinished

letters

.

I

begin

to

suspect

,

when

I

am

with

you

,

that

I

am

among

the

most

gifted

of

men

.

I

am

filled

with

the

delight

of

youth

,

with

potency

,

with

the

sense

of

what

is

to

come

.

Blundering

,

but

fervid

,

I

see

myself

buzzing

round

flowers

,

humming

down

scarlet

cups

,

making

blue

funnels

resound

with

my

prodigious

booming

.

How

richly

I

shall

enjoy

my

youth

(

you

make

me

feel

)

.

And

London

.

And

freedom

.

But

stop

.

You

are

not

listening

.

You

are

making

some

protest

,

as

you

slide

,

with

an

inexpressibly

familiar

gesture

,

your

hand

along

your

knee

.

Предыдущая страница

Предыдущая

Следующая

Следующая страница

Следующая страница