Волны

           Theyareallboasting,alltalking,exceptNeville,whoslipsalookoccasionallyovertheedgeofaFrenchnovel,andsowillalwaysslipintocushionedfirelitrooms,withmanybooksandonefriend,whileItiltonanofficechairbehindacounter.ThenIshallgrowbitterandmockatthem.IshallenvythemtheircontinuancedownthesafetraditionalwaysundertheshadeofoldyewtreeswhileIconsortwithcockneysandclerks,andtapthepavementsofthecity.

           ’Butnowdisembodied,passingoverfieldswithoutlodgment--(thereisariver;amanfishes;thereisaspire,thereisthevillagestreetwithitsbow-windowedinn)--allisdreamlikeanddimtome.Thesehardthoughts,thisenvy,thisbitterness,makenolodgmentinme.IamtheghostofLouis,anephemeralpasser-by,inwhoseminddreamshavepower,andgardensoundswhenintheearlymorningpetalsfloatonfathomlessdepthsandthebirdssing.Idashandsprinklemyselfwiththebrightwatersofchildhood.Itsthinveilquivers.Butthechainedbeaststampsandstampsontheshore.’

           ’LouisandNeville,’saidBernard,’bothsitsilent.Bothareabsorbed.Bothfeelthepresenceofotherpeopleasaseparatingwall.ButifIfindmyselfincompanywithotherpeople,wordsatoncemakesmokerings--seehowphrasesatoncebegintowreatheoffmylips.Itseemsthatamatchissettoafire;somethingburns.Anelderlyandapparentlyprosperousman,atraveller,nowgetsin.AndIatoncewishtoapproachhim;Iinstinctivelydislikethesenseofhispresence,cold,unassimilated,amongus.Idonotbelieveinseparation.Wearenotsingle.