Волны

           I,whoamalwaysdistracted,whetherbyacatorbyabeebuzzingroundthebouquetthatLadyHampdenkeepssodiligentlypressedtohernose,atoncemakeupastoryandsoobliteratetheanglesofthecrucifix.Ihavemadeupthousandsofstories;IhavefilledinnumerablenotebookswithphrasestobeusedwhenIhavefoundthetruestory,theonestorytowhichallthesephrasesrefer.ButIhaveneveryetfoundthatstory.AndIbegintoask,Aretherestories?

           ’Looknowfromthisterraceattheswarmingpopulationbeneath.Lookatthegeneralactivityandclamour.Thatmanisindifficultieswithhismule.Halfadozengood-naturedloafersoffertheirservices.Otherspassbywithoutlooking.Theyhaveasmanyinterestsastherearethreadsinaskein.Lookatthesweepofthesky,bowledoverbyroundwhiteclouds.ImaginetheleaguesoflevellandandtheaqueductsandthebrokenRomanpavementandthetombstonesintheCampagna,andbeyondtheCampagna,thesea,thenagainmoreland,thenthesea.Icouldbreakoffanydetailinallthatprospect--saythemule-cart--anddescribeitwiththegreatestease.Butwhydescribeamanintroublewithhismule?Again,Icouldinventstoriesaboutthatgirlcomingupthesteps."Shemethimunderthedarkarchway....’Itisover,’hesaid,turningfromthecagewherethechinaparrothangs."Orsimply,"Thatwasall.