Мартин Иден

Chapter 17

           Anotherweekpassed,agreatbattlethatcontinuedundertheelectriclightseachnightandthatculminatedonSaturdayafternoonatthreeo’clock,whenJoetastedhismomentofwiltedtriumphandthendrifteddowntothevillagetoforget. Martin’sSundaywasthesameasbefore. Hesleptintheshadeofthetrees,toiledaimlesslythroughthenewspaper,andspentlonghourslyingonhisback,doingnothing,thinkingnothing. Hewastoodazedtothink,thoughhewasawarethathedidnotlikehimself. Hewasself-repelled,asthoughhehadundergonesomedegradationorwasintrinsicallyfoul. Allthatwasgod-likeinhimwasblottedout. Thespurofambitionwasblunted; hehadnovitalitywithwhichtofeeltheprodofit. Hewasdead. Hissoulseemeddead. Hewasabeast,awork-beast. Hesawnobeautyinthesunshinesiftingdownthroughthegreenleaves,nordidtheazurevaultoftheskywhisperasofoldandhintofcosmicvastnessandsecretstremblingtodisclosure. Lifewasintolerablydullandstupid,anditstastewasbadinhismouth. Ablackscreenwasdrawnacrosshismirrorofinnervision,andfancylayinadarkenedsick-roomwhereenterednorayoflight. HeenviedJoe,downinthevillage,rampant,tearingtheslatsoffthebar,hisbraingnawingwithmaggots,exultinginmaudlinwaysovermaudlinthings,fantasticallyandgloriouslydrunkandforgetfulofMondaymorningandtheweekofdeadeningtoiltocome. 

           Athirdweekwentby,andMartinloathedhimself,andloathedlife. Hewasoppressedbyasenseoffailure. Therewasreasonfortheeditorsrefusinghisstuff. Hecouldseethatclearlynow,andlaughathimselfandthedreamshehaddreamed. Ruthreturnedhis"SeaLyrics"bymail. Hereadherletterapathetically. 

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