-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Вирджиния Вульф
-
- Волны
-
- Стр. 68/81
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
The
waves
breaking
spread
their
white
fans
far
out
over
the
shore
,
sent
white
shadows
into
the
recesses
of
sonorous
caves
and
then
rolled
back
sighing
over
the
shingle
.
The
tree
shook
its
branches
and
a
scattering
of
leaves
fell
to
the
ground
.
There
they
settled
with
perfect
composure
on
the
precise
spot
where
they
would
await
dissolution
.
Black
and
grey
were
shot
into
the
garden
from
the
broken
vessel
that
had
once
held
red
light
.
Dark
shadows
blackened
the
tunnels
between
the
stalks
.
The
thrush
was
silent
and
the
worm
sucked
itself
back
into
its
narrow
hole
.
Now
and
again
a
whitened
and
hollow
straw
was
blown
from
an
old
nest
and
fell
into
the
dark
grasses
among
the
rotten
apples
.
The
light
had
faded
from
the
tool-house
wall
and
the
adder
's
skin
hung
from
the
nail
empty
.
All
the
colours
in
the
room
had
overflown
their
banks
.
The
precise
brush
stroke
was
swollen
and
lop-sided
;
cupboards
and
chairs
melted
their
brown
masses
into
one
huge
obscurity
.
The
height
from
floor
to
ceiling
was
hung
with
vast
curtains
of
shaking
darkness
.
The
looking-glass
was
pale
as
the
mouth
of
a
cave
shadowed
by
hanging
creepers
.
The
substance
had
gone
from
the
solidity
of
the
hills
.
Travelling
lights
drove
a
plumy
wedge
among
unseen
and
sunken
roads
,
but
no
lights
opened
among
the
folded
wings
of
the
hills
,
and
there
was
no
sound
save
the
cry
of
a
bird
seeking
some
lonelier
tree
.
At
the
cliff
's
edge
there
was
an
equal
murmur
of
air
that
had
been
brushed
through
forests
,
of
water
that
had
been
cooled
in
a
thousand
glassy
hollows
of
mid-ocean
.
As
if
there
were
waves
of
darkness
in
the
air
,
darkness
moved
on
,
covering
houses
,
hills
,
trees
,
as
waves
of
water
wash
round
the
sides
of
some
sunken
ship
.
Darkness
washed
down
streets
,
eddying
round
single
figures
,
engulfing
them
;
blotting
out
couples
clasped
under
the
showery
darkness
of
elm
trees
in
full
summer
foliage
.
Darkness
rolled
its
waves
along
grassy
rides
and
over
the
wrinkled
skin
of
the
turf
,
enveloping
the
solitary
thorn
tree
and
the
empty
snail
shells
at
its
foot
.
Mounting
higher
,
darkness
blew
along
the
bare
upland
slopes
,
and
met
the
fretted
and
abraded
pinnacles
of
the
mountain
where
the
snow
lodges
for
ever
on
the
hard
rock
even
when
the
valleys
are
full
of
running
streams
and
yellow
vine
leaves
,
and
girls
,
sitting
on
verandahs
,
look
up
at
the
snow
,
shading
their
faces
with
their
fans
.
Them
,
too
,
darkness
covered
.
'N
ow
to
sum
up
,
'
said
Bernard
.
'N
ow
to
explain
to
you
the
meaning
of
my
life
.
Since
we
do
not
know
each
other
(
though
I
met
you
once
,
I
think
,
on
board
a
ship
going
to
Africa
)
,
we
can
talk
freely
.
The
illusion
is
upon
me
that
something
adheres
for
a
moment
,
has
roundness
,
weight
,
depth
,
is
completed
.
This
,
for
the
moment
,
seems
to
be
my
life
.
If
it
were
possible
,
I
would
hand
it
to
you
entire
.
I
would
break
it
off
as
one
breaks
off
a
bunch
of
grapes
.
I
would
say
,
"
Take
it
.
This
is
my
life
.
"
'
But
unfortunately
,
what
I
see
(
this
globe
,
full
of
figures
)
you
do
not
see
.
You
see
me
,
sitting
at
a
table
opposite
you
,
a
rather
heavy
,
elderly
man
,
grey
at
the
temples
.
You
see
me
take
my
napkin
and
unfold
it
.
You
see
me
pour
myself
out
a
glass
of
wine
.
And
you
see
behind
me
the
door
opening
,
and
people
passing
.
But
in
order
to
make
you
understand
,
to
give
you
my
life
,
I
must
tell
you
a
story
--
and
there
are
so
many
,
and
so
many
--
stories
of
childhood
,
stories
of
school
,
love
,
marriage
,
death
,
and
so
on
;
and
none
of
them
are
true
.
Yet
like
children
we
tell
each
other
stories
,
and
to
decorate
them
we
make
up
these
ridiculous
,
flamboyant
,
beautiful
phrases
.
How
tired
I
am
of
stories
,
how
tired
I
am
of
phrases
that
come
down
beautifully
with
all
their
feet
on
the
ground
!
Also
,
how
I
distrust
neat
designs
of
life
that
are
drawn
upon
half-sheets
of
note-paper
.
I
begin
to
long
for
some
little
language
such
as
lovers
use
,
broken
words
,
inarticulate
words
,
like
the
shuffling
of
feet
on
the
pavement
.
I
begin
to
seek
some
design
more
in
accordance
with
those
moments
of
humiliation
and
triumph
that
come
now
and
then
undeniably
.
Lying
in
a
ditch
on
a
stormy
day
,
when
it
has
been
raining
,
then
enormous
clouds
come
marching
over
the
sky
,
tattered
clouds
,
wisps
of
cloud
.
What
delights
me
then
is
the
confusion
,
the
height
,
the
indifference
and
the
fury
.
Great
clouds
always
changing
,
and
movement
;
something
sulphurous
and
sinister
,
bowled
up
,
helter-skelter
;
towering
,
trailing
,
broken
off
,
lost
,
and
I
forgotten
,
minute
,
in
a
ditch
.
Of
story
,
of
design
,
I
do
not
see
a
trace
then
.
'
But
meanwhile
,
while
we
eat
,
let
us
turn
over
these
scenes
as
children
turn
over
the
pages
of
a
picture-book
and
the
nurse
says
,
pointing
:
"
That
's
a
cow
.
That
's
a
boat
.
"
Let
us
turn
over
the
pages
,
and
I
will
add
,
for
your
amusement
,
a
comment
in
the
margin
.
'
In
the
beginning
,
there
was
the
nursery
,
with
windows
opening
on
to
a
garden
,
and
beyond
that
the
sea
.
I
saw
something
brighten
--
no
doubt
the
brass
handle
of
a
cupboard
.
Then
Mrs
Constable
raised
the
sponge
above
her
head
,
squeezed
it
,
and
out
shot
,
right
,
left
,
all
down
the
spine
,
arrows
of
sensation
.
And
so
,
as
long
as
we
draw
breath
,
for
the
rest
of
time
,
if
we
knock
against
a
chair
,
a
table
,
or
a
woman
,
we
are
pierced
with
arrows
of
sensation
--
if
we
walk
in
a
garden
,
if
we
drink
this
wine
.
Sometimes
indeed
,
when
I
pass
a
cottage
with
a
light
in
the
window
where
a
child
has
been
born
,
I
could
implore
them
not
to
squeeze
the
sponge
over
that
new
body
.
Then
,
there
was
the
garden
and
the
canopy
of
the
currant
leaves
which
seemed
to
enclose
everything
;
flowers
,
burning
like
sparks
upon
the
depths
of
green
;
a
rat
wreathing
with
maggots
under
a
rhubarb
leaf
;
the
fly
going
buzz
,
buzz
,
buzz
upon
the
nursery
ceiling
,
and
plates
upon
plates
of
innocent
bread
and
butter
.
All
these
things
happen
in
one
second
and
last
for
ever
.
Faces
loom
.
Dashing
round
the
corner
.
"
Hullo
,
"
one
says
,
"
there
's
Jinny
.
That
's
Neville
.
That
's
Louis
in
grey
flannel
with
a
snake
belt
.
That
's
Rhoda
.
"
She
had
a
basin
in
which
she
sailed
petals
of
white
flowers
.
It
was
Susan
who
cried
,
that
day
when
I
was
in
the
tool-house
with
Neville
;
and
I
felt
my
indifference
melt
.
Neville
did
not
melt
.
"
Therefore
,
"
I
said
,
"
I
am
myself
,
not
Neville
"
,
a
wonderful
discovery
.
Susan
cried
and
I
followed
her
.
Her
wet
pocket-handkerchief
,
and
the
sight
of
her
little
back
heaving
up
and
down
like
a
pump-handle
,
sobbing
for
what
was
denied
her
,
screwed
my
nerves
up
.
"
That
is
not
to
be
borne
,
"
I
said
,
as
I
sat
beside
her
on
the
roots
that
were
hard
as
skeletons
.
I
then
first
became
aware
of
the
presence
of
those
enemies
who
change
,
but
are
always
there
;
the
forces
we
fight
against
.
To
let
oneself
be
carried
on
passively
is
unthinkable
.
"
That
's
your
course
,
world
,
"
one
says
,
"
mine
is
this
.
"
So
,
"
Let
's
explore
,
"
I
cried
,
and
jumped
up
,
and
ran
downhill
with
Susan
and
saw
the
stable-boy
clattering
about
the
yard
in
great
boots
.
Down
below
,
through
the
depths
of
the
leaves
,
the
gardeners
swept
the
lawns
with
great
brooms
.
The
lady
sat
writing
.
Transfixed
,
stopped
dead
,
I
thought
,
"
I
can
not
interfere
with
a
single
stroke
of
those
brooms
.
They
sweep
and
they
sweep
.
Nor
with
the
fixity
of
that
woman
writing
.
"
It
is
strange
that
one
can
not
stop
gardeners
sweeping
nor
dislodge
a
woman
.
There
they
have
remained
all
my
life
.
It
is
as
if
one
had
woken
in
Stonehenge
surrounded
by
a
circle
of
great
stones
,
these
enemies
,
these
presences
.
Then
a
wood-pigeon
flew
out
of
the
trees
.
And
being
in
love
for
the
first
time
,
I
made
a
phrase
--
a
poem
about
a
wood-pigeon
--
a
single
phrase
,
for
a
hole
had
been
knocked
in
my
mind
,
one
of
those
sudden
transparencies
through
which
one
sees
everything
.
Then
more
bread
and
butter
and
more
flies
droning
round
the
nursery
ceiling
on
which
quivered
islands
of
light
,
ruffled
,
opalescent
,
while
the
pointed
fingers
of
the
lustre
dripped
blue
pools
on
the
corner
of
the
mantelpiece
.
