Голод
Part I
QuiteinvoluntarilyIhadgotpaperandpencilintomyhandagain,andIsatandwrotemechanicallythedate,1848,ineachcorner.Ifonlynowonesingleeffervescingthoughtwouldgripmepowerfully,andputwordsintomymouth.Why,IhadknownhourswhenIcouldwritealongpiece,withouttheleastexertion,andturnitoffcapitally,too.
Iamsittingontheseat,andIwrite,scoresoftimes,1848.Iwritethisdatecriss-cross,inallpossiblefashions,andwaituntilaworkableideashalloccurtome.Aswarmofloosethoughtsflutteraboutinmyhead.Thefeelingofdecliningdaymakesmedowncast,sentimental;autumnishere,andhasalreadybeguntohusheverythingintosleepandtorpor.Thefliesandinsectshavereceivedtheirfirstwarning.Upinthetreesanddowninthefieldsthesoundsofstrugglinglifecanbeheardrustling,murmuring,restless;labouringnottoperish.Thedown-troddenexistenceofthewholeinsectworldisastirforyetalittlewhile.Theypoketheiryellowheadsupfromtheturf,lifttheirlegs,feeltheirwaywithlongfeelersandthencollapsesuddenly,rollover,andturntheirbelliesintheair.
Everygrowingthinghasreceiveditspeculiarimpress:thedelicatelyblownbreathofthefirstcold.Thestubblesstragglewanlysunwards,andthefallingleavesrustletotheearth,withasoundasoferrantsilkworms.
