Волны

           ’Thecomplexityofthingsbecomesmoreclose,’saidBernard,’hereatcollege,wherethestirandpressureoflifearesoextreme,wheretheexcitementofmerelivingbecomesdailymoreurgent.Everyhoursomethingnewisunburiedinthegreatbranpie.WhatamI?Iask.This?No,Iamthat.Especiallynow,whenIhaveleftaroom,andpeopletalking,andthestoneflagsringoutwithmysolitaryfootsteps,andIbeholdthemoonrising,sublimely,indifferently,overtheancientchapel--thenitbecomesclearthatIamnotoneandsimple,butcomplexandmany.Bernard,inpublic,bubbles;inprivate,issecretive.Thatiswhattheydonotunderstand,fortheyarenowundoubtedlydiscussingme,sayingIescapethem,amevasive.TheydonotunderstandthatIhavetoeffectdifferenttransitions;havetocovertheentrancesandexitsofseveraldifferentmenwhoalternatelyacttheirpartsasBernard.Iamabnormallyawareofcircumstances.Icanneverreadabookinarailwaycarriagewithoutasking,Isheabuilder?Issheunhappy?IwasawaretodayacutelythatpoorSimes,withhispimple,wasfeeling,howbitterly,thathischanceofmakingagoodimpressionuponBillyJacksonwasremote.Feelingthispainfully,Iinvitedhimtodinnerwithardour.Thishewillattributetoanadmirationwhichisnotmine.Thatistrue.But"joinedtothesensibilityofawoman"(Iamherequotingmyownbiographer)"Bernardpossessedthelogicalsobrietyofaman.