Волны

           Before,whenwemetinarestaurantinLondonwithPercival,allsimmeredandshook;wecouldhavebeenanything.Wehavechosennow,orsometimesitseemsthechoicewasmadeforus--apairoftongspinchedusbetweentheshoulders.Ichose.Itooktheprintoflifenotoutwardly,butinwardlyupontheraw,thewhite,theunprotectedfibre.Iamcloudedandbruisedwiththeprintofmindsandfacesandthingssosubtlethattheyhavesmell,colour,texture,substance,butnoname.Iammerely"Neville"toyou,whoseethenarrowlimitsofmylifeandthelineitcannotpass.ButtomyselfIamimmeasurable;anetwhosefibrespassimperceptiblybeneaththeworld.Mynetisalmostindistinguishablefromthatwhichitsurrounds.Itliftswhales--hugeleviathansandwhitejellies,whatisamorphousandwandering;Idetect,Iperceive.Beneathmyeyesopens--abook;Iseetothebottom;theheart--Iseetothedepths.Iknowwhatlovesaretremblingintofire;howjealousyshootsitsgreenflasheshitherandthither;howintricatelylovecrosseslove;lovemakesknots;lovebrutallytearsthemapart.Ihavebeenknotted;Ihavebeentornapart.

           ’Buttherewasanothergloryonce,whenwewatchedforthedoortoopen,andPercivalcame;whenweflungourselvesunattachedontheedgeofahardbenchinapublicroom.’

           ’Therewasthebeechwood,’saidSusan,’Elvedon,andthegilthandsoftheclocksparklingamongthetrees.Thepigeonsbroketheleaves.Thechangingtravellinglightswanderedoverme.Theyescapedme.Yetlook,Neville,whomIdiscreditinordertobemyself,atmyhandonthetable.