Волны

           Itisbettertolookatarose,ortoreadShakespeareasIreadhimhereinShaftesburyAvenue.Here’sthefool,here’sthevillain,hereinacarcomesCleopatra,burningonherbarge.Herearefiguresofthedamnedtoo,noselessmenbythepolice-courtwall,standingwiththeirfeetinfire,howling.Thisispoetryifwedonotwriteit.Theyacttheirpartsinfallibly,andalmostbeforetheyopentheirlipsIknowwhattheyaregoingtosay,andwaitthedivinemomentwhentheyspeakthewordthatmusthavebeenwritten.Ifitwereonlyforthesakeoftheplay,IcouldwalkShaftesburyAvenueforever.

           ’Thencomingfromthestreet,enteringsomeroom,therearepeopletalking,orhardlytroublingtotalk.Hesays,shesays,somebodyelsesaysthingshavebeensaidsooftenthatonewordisnowenoughtoliftawholeweight.Argument,laughter,oldgrievances--theyfallthroughtheair,thickeningit.Itakeabookandreadhalfapageofanything.Theyhavenotmendedthespoutoftheteapotyet.Thechilddances,dressedinhermother’sclothes.

           ’ButthenRhoda,oritmaybeLouis,somefastingandanguishedspirit,passesthroughandoutagain.Theywantaplot,dothey?Theywantareason?Itisnotenoughforthem,thisordinaryscene.Itisnotenoughtowaitforthethingtobesaidasifitwerewritten;toseethesentencelayitsdabofclaypreciselyontherightplace,makingcharacter;toperceive,suddenly,somegroupinoutlineagainstthesky.Yetiftheywantviolence,Ihaveseendeathandmurderandsuicideallinoneroom.Onecomesin,onegoesout.Therearesobsonthestaircase.