Остров доктора Моро
Doctor Moreau Explains.
SometimesIriseabovemylevel,sometimesIfallbelowit;butalwaysIfallshortofthethingsIdream.ThehumanshapeIcangetnow,almostwithease,sothatitislitheandgraceful,orthickandstrong;butoftenthereistroublewiththehandsandtheclaws,—painfulthings,thatIdarenotshapetoofreely.Butitisinthesubtlegraftingandreshapingonemustneedsdotothebrainthatmytroublelies.Theintelligenceisoftenoddlylow,withunaccountableblankends,unexpectedgaps.AndleastsatisfactoryofallissomethingthatIcannottouch,somewhere—Icannotdeterminewhere—intheseatoftheemotions.Cravings,instincts,desiresthatharmhumanity,astrangehiddenreservoirtoburstforthsuddenlyandinundatethewholebeingofthecreaturewithanger,hate,orfear.Thesecreaturesofmineseemedstrangeanduncannytoyousosoonasyoubegantoobservethem;buttome,justafterImakethem,theyseemtobeindisputablyhumanbeings.It’safterwards,asIobservethem,thatthepersuasionfades.Firstoneanimaltrait,thenanother,creepstothesurfaceandstaresoutatme.ButIwillconqueryet!EachtimeIdipalivingcreatureintothebathofburningpain,Isay,‘ThistimeIwillburnoutalltheanimal;thistimeIwillmakearationalcreatureofmyown!’Afterall,whatistenyears?Menhavebeenahundredthousandinthemaking."Hethoughtdarkly."ButIamdrawingnearthefastness.Thispumaofmine—"Afterasilence,"Andtheyrevert.
