Мартин Иден

Chapter 35

           Itwasamadorgyofimagination,wassailingintheskullofadyingmanwhohalfsobbedunderhisbreathandwasquickwiththewildflutteroffadingheart-beats. Thepoemswunginmajesticrhythmtothecooltumultofinterstellarconflict,totheonsetofstarryhosts,totheimpactofcoldsunsandtheflamingupofnebulaeinthedarkenedvoid; andthroughitall,unceasingandfaint,likeasilvershuttle,ranthefrail,pipingvoiceofman,aquerulouschirpamidthescreamingofplanetsandthecrashofsystems. 

           "Thereisnothinglikeitinliterature,"Martinsaid,whenatlasthewasabletospeak. "It’swonderful!wonderful! Ithasgonetomyhead. Iamdrunkenwithit. Thatgreat,infinitesimalquestionIcan’tshakeitoutofmythoughts. Thatquesting,eternal,everrecurring,thinlittlewailingvoiceofmanisstillringinginmyears. Itislikethedead-marchofagnatamidthetrumpetingofelephantsandtheroaringoflions. Itisinsatiablewithmicroscopicdesire. InowI’mmakingafoolofmyself,butthethinghasobsessedme. YouareIdon’tknowwhatyouareyouarewonderful,that’sall. Buthowdoyoudoit? Howdoyoudoit?" 

           Martinpausedfromhisrhapsody,onlytobreakoutafresh. 

           "Ishallneverwriteagain. Iamadauberinclay. Youhaveshownmetheworkoftherealartificer-artisan. Genius! Thisissomethingmorethangenius. Ittranscendsgenius. Itistruthgonemad. Itistrue,man,everylineofit. Iwonderifyourealizethat,youdogmatist. Sciencecannotgiveyouthelie. 

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