-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Вирджиния Вульф
-
- Волны
-
- Стр. 24/81
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
'
But
I
am
too
nervous
to
end
my
sentence
properly
.
I
speak
quickly
,
as
I
pace
up
and
down
,
to
conceal
my
agitation
.
I
hate
your
greasy
handkerchiefs
--
you
will
stain
your
copy
of
Don
Juan
.
You
are
not
listening
to
me
.
You
are
making
phrases
about
Byron
.
And
while
you
gesticulate
,
with
your
cloak
,
your
cane
,
I
am
trying
to
expose
a
secret
told
to
nobody
yet
;
I
am
asking
you
(
as
I
stand
with
my
back
to
you
)
to
take
my
life
in
your
hands
and
tell
me
whether
I
am
doomed
always
to
cause
repulsion
in
those
I
love
?
'
I
stand
with
my
back
to
you
fidgeting
.
No
,
my
hands
are
now
perfectly
still
.
Precisely
,
opening
a
space
in
the
bookcase
,
I
insert
Don
Juan
;
there
.
I
would
rather
be
loved
,
I
would
rather
be
famous
than
follow
perfection
through
the
sand
.
But
am
I
doomed
to
cause
disgust
?
Am
I
a
poet
?
Take
it
.
The
desire
which
is
loaded
behind
my
lips
,
cold
as
lead
,
fell
as
a
bullet
,
the
thing
I
aim
at
shop-girls
,
women
,
the
pretence
,
the
vulgarity
of
life
(
because
I
love
it
)
shoots
at
you
as
I
throw
--
catch
it
--
my
poem
.
'
'
He
has
shot
like
an
arrow
from
the
room
,
'
said
Bernard
.
'
He
has
left
me
his
poem
.
O
friendship
,
I
too
will
press
flowers
between
the
pages
of
Shakespeare
's
sonnets
!
O
friendship
,
how
piercing
are
your
darts
--
there
,
there
,
again
there
.
He
looked
at
me
,
turning
to
face
me
;
he
gave
me
his
poem
.
All
mists
curl
off
the
roof
of
my
being
.
That
confidence
I
shall
keep
to
my
dying
day
.
Like
a
long
wave
,
like
a
roll
of
heavy
waters
,
he
went
over
me
,
his
devastating
presence
--
dragging
me
open
,
laying
bare
the
pebbles
on
the
shore
of
my
soul
.
It
was
humiliating
;
I
was
turned
to
small
stones
.
All
semblances
were
rolled
up
.
"
You
are
not
Byron
;
you
are
your
self
.
"
To
be
contracted
by
another
person
into
a
single
being
--
how
strange
.
'
How
strange
to
feel
the
line
that
is
spun
from
us
lengthening
its
fine
filament
across
the
misty
spaces
of
the
intervening
world
.
He
is
gone
;
I
stand
here
,
holding
his
poem
.
Between
us
is
this
line
.
But
now
,
how
comfortable
,
how
reassuring
to
feel
that
alien
presence
removed
,
that
scrutiny
darkened
and
hooded
over
!
How
grateful
to
draw
the
blinds
,
and
admit
no
other
presence
;
to
feel
returning
from
the
dark
corners
in
which
they
took
refuge
,
those
shabby
inmates
,
those
familiars
,
whom
,
with
his
superior
force
,
he
drove
into
hiding
.
The
mocking
,
the
observant
spirits
who
,
even
in
the
crisis
and
stab
of
the
moment
,
watched
on
my
behalf
now
come
flocking
home
again
.
With
their
addition
,
I
am
Bernard
;
I
am
Byron
;
I
am
this
,
that
and
the
other
.
They
darken
the
air
and
enrich
me
,
as
of
old
,
with
their
antics
,
their
comments
,
and
cloud
the
fine
simplicity
of
my
moment
of
emotion
.
For
I
am
more
selves
than
Neville
thinks
.
We
are
not
simple
as
our
friends
would
have
us
to
meet
their
needs
.
Yet
love
is
simple
.
'N
ow
they
have
returned
,
my
inmates
,
my
familiars
.
Now
the
stab
,
the
rent
in
my
defences
that
Neville
made
with
his
astonishing
fine
rapier
,
is
repaired
.
I
am
almost
whole
now
;
and
see
how
jubilant
I
am
,
bringing
into
play
all
that
Neville
ignores
in
me
.
I
feel
,
as
I
look
from
the
window
,
parting
the
curtains
,
"
That
would
give
him
no
pleasure
;
but
it
rejoices
me
.
"
(
We
use
our
friends
to
measure
our
own
stature
.
)
My
scope
embraces
what
Neville
never
reaches
.
They
are
shouting
hunting-songs
over
the
way
.
They
are
celebrating
some
run
with
the
beagles
.
The
,
little
boys
in
caps
who
always
turned
at
the
same
moment
when
the
brake
went
round
the
corner
are
clapping
each
other
on
the
shoulder
and
boasting
.
But
Neville
,
delicately
avoiding
interference
,
stealthily
,
like
a
conspirator
,
hastens
back
to
his
room
.
I
see
him
sunk
in
his
low
chair
gazing
at
the
fire
which
has
assumed
for
the
moment
an
architectural
solidity
.
If
life
,
he
thinks
,
could
wear
that
permanence
,
if
life
could
have
that
order
--
for
above
all
he
desires
order
,
and
detests
my
Byronic
untidiness
;
and
so
draws
his
curtain
;
and
bolts
his
door
.
His
eyes
(
for
he
is
in
love
;
the
sinister
figure
of
love
presided
at
our
encounter
)
fill
with
longing
;
fill
with
tears
.
He
snatches
the
poker
and
with
one
blow
destroys
that
momentary
appearance
of
solidity
in
the
burning
coals
.
All
changes
.
And
youth
and
love
.
The
boat
has
floated
through
the
arch
of
the
willows
and
is
now
under
the
bridge
.
Percival
,
Tony
,
Archie
,
or
another
,
will
go
to
India
.
We
shall
not
meet
again
.
Then
he
stretches
his
hand
for
his
copy-book
--
a
neat
volume
bound
in
mottled
paper
--
and
writes
feverishly
long
lines
of
poetry
,
in
the
manner
of
whomever
he
admires
most
at
the
moment
.
'
But
I
want
to
linger
;
to
lean
from
the
window
;
to
listen
.
There
again
comes
that
rollicking
chorus
.
They
are
now
smashing
china
--
that
also
is
the
convention
.
The
chorus
,
like
a
torrent
jumping
rocks
,
brutally
assaulting
old
trees
,
pours
with
splendid
abandonment
headlong
over
precipices
.
On
they
roll
;
on
they
gallop
,
after
hounds
,
after
footballs
;
they
pump
up
and
down
attached
to
oars
like
sacks
of
flour
.
All
divisions
are
merged
--
they
act
like
one
man
.
The
gusty
October
wind
blows
the
uproar
in
bursts
of
sound
and
silence
across
the
court
.
Now
again
they
are
smashing
the
china
--
that
is
the
convention
.
An
old
,
unsteady
woman
carrying
a
bag
trots
home
under
the
fire-red
windows
.
She
is
half
afraid
that
they
will
fall
on
her
and
tumble
her
into
the
gutter
.
Yet
she
pauses
as
if
to
warm
her
knobbed
,
her
rheumaticky
hands
at
the
bonfire
which
flares
away
with
streams
of
sparks
and
bits
of
blown
paper
.
The
old
woman
pauses
against
the
lit
window
.
A
contrast
.
That
I
see
and
Neville
does
not
see
;
that
I
feel
and
Neville
does
not
feel
.
Hence
he
will
reach
perfection
and
I
shall
fail
and
shall
leave
nothing
behind
me
but
imperfect
phrases
littered
with
sand
.
'
I
think
of
Louis
now
.
