Мартин Иден

           Youknowthebooksyoufindincattle-campsan’fo’c’s’lsain’tthesameyou’vegotinthishouse,forinstance. Well,that’sthesortofreadin’matterI’vebenaccustomedto. Andyet—an’Iain’tjustmakin’abragofit—I’vebendifferentfromthepeopleI’veherdedwith. NotthatI’manybetterthanthesailorsan’cow-punchersItravelledwith, —Iwascow-punchin’forashorttime,youknow,—butIalwayslikedbooks,readeverythingIcouldlayhandson,an’—well,IguessIthinkdifferentlyfrommostof’em. 

           "Now,tocometowhatI’mdrivin’at. Iwasneverinsideahouselikethis. WhenIcomeaweekago,an’sawallthis,an’you,an’yourmother,an’brothers,an’everything—well,Ilikedit. I’dheardaboutsuchthingsan’readaboutsuchthingsinsomeofthebooks,an’whenIlookedaroundatyourhouse,why,thebookscometrue. ButthethingI’mafterisIlikedit. Iwantedit. Iwantitnow. Iwanttobreatheairlikeyougetinthishouse—airthatisfilledwithbooks,andpictures,andbeautifulthings,wherepeopletalkinlowvoicesan’areclean,an’theirthoughtsareclean. TheairIalwaysbreathedwasmixedupwithgruban’house-rentan’scrappin’anboozean’that’salltheytalkedabout,too. Why,whenyouwascrossin’theroomtokissyourmother,IthoughtitwasthemostbeautifulthingIeverseen. I’veseenawholelotoflife,an’somehowI’veseenawholelotmoreofitthanmostofthemthatwaswithme. Iliketosee,an’Iwanttoseemore,an’Iwanttoseeitdifferent. 

           "ButIain’tgottothepointyet. Hereitis. Iwanttomakemywaytothekindoflifeyouhaveinthishouse. There’smoreinlifethanbooze,an’hardwork,an’knockin’about. Now,howamIgoin’togetit? WheredoItakeholdan’begin? I’mwillin’toworkmypassage,youknow,an’Icanmakemostmensickwhenitcomestohardwork.