Голод
Part IV
Atlasteverythingbegantogetconfused;itseemedtomethateventhatwhichIhadalreadywrittenwasunfittouse,ay,thatthewholeideawascontemptiblerubbish.HowcouldonepossiblytalkofconscienceintheMiddleAges?ConsciencewasfirstinventedbyDancing-masterShakespeare,consequentlymywholeaddresswaswrong.Wasthere,then,nothingofvalueinthesepages?Iranthroughthemanew,andsolvedmydoubtatonce.Idiscoveredgrandpieces—downrightlengthypiecesofremarkablemerit—andonceagaintheintoxicatingdesiretosettoworkagaindartedthroughmybreast—thedesiretofinishmydrama.
Igotupandwenttothedoor,withoutpayinganyattentiontomylandlord’sfurioussignstogooutquietly;Iwalkedoutoftheroomfirmly,andwithmymindmadeup.Iwentupstairstothesecondfloor,andenteredmyformerroom.Themanwasnotthere,andwhatwastohindermefromsittinghereforamoment?Iwouldnottouchoneofhisthings.Iwouldn’tevenonceusehistable;Iwouldjustseatmyselfonachairnearthedoor,andbehappy.Ispreadthepapershurriedlyoutonmyknees.Thingswentsplendidlyforafewminutes.Retortuponretortstoodreadyinmyhead,andIwroteuninterruptedly.Ifilledonepageaftertheother,dashedaheadoverstockandstone,chuckledsoftlyinecstasyovermyhappyvein,andwasscarcelyconsciousofmyself.TheonlysoundIheardinthismomentwasmyownmerrychuckle.
