Дэвид Копперфильд

Absence

           Imournedforthebrokenheartthathadfoundrestinthestormysea;andforthewanderingremnantsofthesimplehome,whereIhadheardthenight-windblowing,whenIwasachild.

           FromtheaccumulatedsadnessintowhichIfell,Ihadatlengthnohopeofeverissuingagain.Iroamedfromplacetoplace,carryingmyburdenwithmeeverywhere.Ifeltitswholeweightnow;andIdroopedbeneathit,andIsaidinmyheartthatitcouldneverbelightened.

           Whenthisdespondencywasatitsworst,IbelievedthatIshoulddie.Sometimes,IthoughtthatIwouldliketodieathome;andactuallyturnedbackonmyroad,thatImightgettheresoon.Atothertimes,Ipassedonfartheraway,fromcitytocity,seekingIknownotwhat,andtryingtoleaveIknownotwhatbehind.

           Itisnotinmypowertoretrace,onebyone,allthewearyphasesofdistressofmindthroughwhichIpassed.Therearesomedreamsthatcanonlybeimperfectlyandvaguelydescribed;andwhenIobligemyselftolookbackonthistimeofmylife,Iseemtoberecallingsuchadream.Iseemyselfpassingonamongthenoveltiesofforeigntowns,palaces,cathedrals,temples,pictures,castles,tombs,fantasticstreets—theoldabidingplacesofHistoryandFancy—asadreamermight;bearingmypainfulloadthroughall,andhardlyconsciousoftheobjectsastheyfadebeforeme.Listlessnesstoeverything,butbroodingsorrow,wasthenightthatfellonmyundisciplinedheart.

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