Дэвид Копперфильд

I Look About Me, and Make a Discovery

           Butthemingledrealityandmysteryofthewholeshow,theinfluenceuponmeofthepoetry,thelights,themusic,thecompany,thesmoothstupendouschangesofglitteringandbrilliantscenery,weresodazzling,andopenedupsuchillimitableregionsofdelight,thatwhenIcameoutintotherainystreet,attwelveo’clockatnight,IfeltasifIhadcomefromtheclouds,whereIhadbeenleadingaromanticlifeforages,toabawling,splashing,link-lighted,umbrella-struggling,hackney-coach-jostling,patten-clinking,muddy,miserableworld.

           Ihademergedbyanotherdoor,andstoodinthestreetforalittlewhile,asifIreallywereastrangeruponearth:buttheunceremoniouspushingandhustlingthatIreceived,soonrecalledmetomyself,andputmeintheroadbacktothehotel;whitherIwent,revolvingthegloriousvisionalltheway;andwhere,aftersomeporterandoysters,Isatrevolvingitstill,atpastoneo’clock,withmyeyesonthecoffee-roomfire.

           Iwassofilledwiththeplay,andwiththepastforitwas,inamanner,likeashiningtransparency,throughwhichIsawmyearlierlifemovingalongthatIdon’tknowwhenthefigureofahandsomewell-formedyoungmandressedwithatastefuleasynegligencewhichIhavereasontorememberverywell,becamearealpresencetome.ButIrecollectbeingconsciousofhiscompanywithouthavingnoticedhiscominginandmystillsitting,musing,overthecoffee-roomfire.

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