Волны

           Atable,achair,abookwithapaper-knifestuckbetweenthepages.Andthepetalfallingfromtherose,andthelightflickeringaswesitsilent,or,perhaps,bethinkingusofsometrifle,suddenlyspeak.’

           ’Week-daysareinit,’saidSusan,’Monday,Tuesday,Wednesday;thehorsesgoinguptothefields,andthehorsesreturning;therooksrisingandfalling,andcatchingtheelm-treesintheirnet,whetheritisApril,whetheritisNovember.’

           ’Whatistocomeisinit,’saidBernard.’ThatisthelastdropandthebrightestthatweletfalllikesomesupernalquicksilverintotheswellingandsplendidmomentcreatedbyusfromPercival.Whatistocome?Iask,brushingthecrumbsfrommywaistcoat,whatisoutside?Wehaveproved,sittingeating,sittingtalking,thatwecanaddtothetreasuryofmoments.Wearenotslavesboundtosufferincessantlyunrecordedpettyblowsonourbentbacks.Wearenotsheepeither,followingamaster.Wearecreators.Wetoohavemadesomethingthatwilljointheinnumerablecongregationsofpasttime.Wetoo,asweputonourhatsandpushopenthedoor,stridenotintochaos,butintoaworldthatourownforcecansubjugateandmakepartoftheilluminedandeverlastingroad.

           ’Look,Percival,whiletheyfetchthetaxi,attheprospectwhichyouaresosoontolose.Thestreetishardandburnishedwiththechurningofinnumerablewheels.Theyellowcanopyofourtremendousenergyhangslikeaburningclothaboveourheads.Theatres,musichallsandlampsinprivatehousesmakethatlight.