Волны

           Mylifehasarapiditythatyourslack.Iamlikeahoundonthescent.Ihuntfromdawntodusk.Nothing,notthepursuitofperfectionthroughthesand,norfame,normoney,hasmeaningforme.Ishallhaveriches;Ishallhavefame.ButIshallneverhavewhatIwant,forIlackbodilygraceandthecouragethatcomeswithit.Theswiftnessofmymindistoostrongformybody.IfailbeforeIreachtheendandfallinaheap,damp,perhapsdisgusting.Iexcitepityinthecrisesoflife,notlove.ThereforeIsufferhorribly.ButIdonotsuffer,asLouisdoes,tomakemyselfaspectacle.Ihavetoofineasenseoffacttoallowmyselfthesejuggleries,thesepretences.Iseeeverything--exceptonething--withcompleteclarity.Thatismysaving.Thatiswhatgivesmysufferinganunceasingexcitement.Thatiswhatmakesmedictate,evenwhenIamsilent.AndsinceIam,inonerespect,deluded,sincethepersonisalwayschanging,thoughnotthedesire,andIdonotknowinthemorningbywhomIshallsitatnight,Iamneverstagnant;Irisefrommyworstdisasters,Iturn,Ichange.Pebblesbounceoffthemailofmymuscular,myextendedbody.InthispursuitIshallgrowold.’

           ’IfIcouldbelieve,’saidRhoda,’thatIshouldgrowoldinpursuitandchange,Ishouldberidofmyfear:nothingpersists.Onemomentdoesnotleadtoanother.Thedooropensandthetigerleaps.Youdidnotseemecome.Icircledroundthechairstoavoidthehorrorofthespring.Iamafraidofyouall.