Голод
Part III
IfIonlyhadacandle,Imightperhapscompletemyarticle.Iwalkedon,jinglingmynewdoor-keyinmyhand;hummed,andwhistled,andspeculatedastomeansofprocuringacandle.Therewasnootherwayoutofit.Iwouldhavetotakemywritingmaterialswithmeintothestreet,underalamp-post.Iopenedthedoor,andwentuptogetmypapers.WhenIdescendedoncemoreIlockedthedoorfromtheoutside,andplantedmyselfunderthelight.Allaroundwasquiet;IheardtheheavyclankingfootstepofaconstabledowninTaergade,andfarawayinthedirectionofSt.Han’sHilladogbarked.Therewasnothingtodisturbme.Ipulledmycoatcollaruproundmyears,andcommencedtothinkwithallmymight.
ItwouldbesuchanextraordinaryhelptomeifIwereluckyenoughtofindasuitablewindingupforthislittleessay.Ihadstuckjustataratherdifficultpointinit,wherethereoughttobeaquiteimperceptibletransitiontosomethingfresh,thenasubduedglidingfinale,aprolongedmurmur,endingatlastinaclimaxasboldandasstartlingasashot,orthesoundofamountainavalanche—fullstop.Butthewordswouldnotcometome.Ireadoverthewholepiecefromthecommencement;readeverysentencealoud,andyetfailedabsolutelytocrystallizemythoughts,inordertoproducethisscintillatingclimax.Andintothebargain,whilstIwasstandinglabouringawayatthis,theconstablecameand,plantinghimselfalittledistanceawayfromme,spoiltmywholemood.
