Волны

           Butstoriesthatfollowpeopleintotheirprivateroomsaredifficult.Icannotgoonwiththisstory.Itwiddleapieceofstring;Iturnoverfourorfivecoinsinmytrouserpocket.’

           ’Bernard’sstoriesamuseme,’saidNeville,’atthestart.Butwhentheytailoffabsurdlyandhegapes,twiddlingabitofstring,Ifeelmyownsolitude.Heseeseveryonewithblurrededges.HenceIcannottalktohimofPercival.Icannotexposemyabsurdandviolentpassiontohissympatheticunderstanding.Ittoowouldmakea"story".Ineedsomeonewhosemindfallslikeachopperonablock;towhomthepitchofabsurdityissublime,andashoe-stringadorable.TowhomIcanexposetheurgencyofmyownpassion?Louisistoocold,toouniversal.Thereisnobodyhereamongthesegreyarches,andmoaningpigeons,andcheerfulgamesandtraditionandemulation,allsoskilfullyorganizedtopreventfeelingalone.YetIamstruckstillasIwalkbysuddenpremonitionsofwhatistocome.Yesterday,passingtheopendoorleadingintotheprivategarden,IsawFenwickwithhismalletraised.Thesteamfromthetea-urnroseinthemiddleofthelawn.Therewerebanksofblueflowers.Thensuddenlydescendeduponmetheobscure,themysticsenseofadoration,ofcompletenessthattriumphedoverchaos.NobodysawmypoisedandintentfigureasIstoodattheopendoor.NobodyguessedtheneedIhadtooffermybeingtoonegod;andperish,anddisappear.Hismalletdescended;thevisionbroke.