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- Вирджиния Вульф
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'M
y
task
,
my
burden
,
has
always
been
greater
than
other
people
's
.
A
pyramid
has
been
set
on
my
shoulders
.
I
have
tried
to
do
a
colossal
labour
.
I
have
driven
a
violent
,
an
unruly
,
a
vicious
team
.
With
my
Australian
accent
I
have
sat
in
eating-shops
and
tried
to
make
the
clerks
accept
me
,
yet
never
forgotten
my
solemn
and
severe
convictions
and
the
discrepancies
and
incoherences
that
must
be
resolved
.
As
a
boy
I
dreamt
of
the
Nile
,
was
reluctant
to
awake
,
yet
brought
down
my
fist
on
the
grained
oak
door
.
It
would
have
been
happier
to
have
been
born
without
a
destiny
,
like
Susan
,
like
Percival
,
whom
I
most
admire
.
O
western
wind
,
when
wilt
thou
blow
.
That
the
small
rain
down
can
rain
?
'
Life
has
been
a
terrible
affair
for
me
.
I
am
like
some
vast
sucker
,
some
glutinous
,
some
adhesive
,
some
insatiable
mouth
.
I
have
tried
to
draw
from
the
living
flesh
the
stone
lodged
at
the
centre
.
I
have
known
little
natural
happiness
,
thought
I
chose
my
mistress
in
order
that
,
with
her
cockney
accent
,
she
might
make
me
feel
at
my
ease
.
But
she
only
tumbled
the
floor
with
dirty
under-linen
,
and
the
charwoman
and
the
shop-boys
called
after
me
a
dozen
times
a
day
,
mocking
my
prim
and
supercilious
gait
.
O
western
wind
,
when
wilt
thou
blow
,
That
the
small
rain
down
can
rain
?
'
What
has
my
destiny
been
,
the
sharp-pointed
pyramid
that
has
pressed
on
my
ribs
all
these
years
?
That
I
remember
the
Nile
and
the
women
carrying
pitchers
on
their
heads
;
that
I
feel
myself
woven
in
and
out
of
the
long
summers
and
winters
that
have
made
the
corn
flow
and
have
frozen
the
streams
.
I
am
not
a
single
and
passing
being
.
My
life
is
not
a
moment
's
bright
spark
like
that
on
the
surface
of
a
diamond
.
I
go
beneath
ground
tortuously
,
as
if
a
warder
carried
a
lamp
from
cell
to
cell
.
My
destiny
has
been
that
I
remember
and
must
weave
together
,
must
plait
into
one
cable
the
many
threads
,
the
thin
,
the
thick
,
the
broken
,
the
enduring
of
our
long
history
,
of
our
tumultuous
and
varied
day
.
There
is
always
more
to
be
understood
;
a
discord
to
be
listened
for
;
a
falsity
to
be
reprimanded
.
Broken
and
soot-stained
are
these
roofs
with
their
chimney
cowls
,
their
loose
slates
,
their
slinking
cats
and
attic
windows
.
I
pick
my
way
over
broken
glass
,
among
blistered
tiles
,
and
see
only
vile
and
famished
faces
.
'
Let
us
suppose
that
I
make
reason
of
it
all
--
one
poem
on
a
page
,
and
then
die
.
I
can
assure
you
it
will
not
be
unwillingly
.
Percival
died
.
Rhoda
left
me
.
But
I
shall
live
to
be
gaunt
and
sere
,
to
tap
my
way
,
much
respected
,
with
my
gold-headed
cane
along
the
pavements
of
the
city
.
Perhaps
I
shall
never
die
,
shall
never
attain
even
that
continuity
and
permanence
--
