Волны

           ’Now,asaproofofmysusceptibilitytoatmosphere,here,asIcomeintomyroom,andturnonthelight,andseethesheetofpaper,thetable,mygownlyingnegligentlyoverthebackofthechair,IfeelthatIamthatdashingyetreflectiveman,thatboldanddeleteriousfigure,who,lightlythrowingoffhiscloak,seizeshispenandatonceflingsoffthefollowinglettertothegirlwithwhomheispassionatelyinlove.

           ’Yes,allispropitious.Iamnowinthemood.IcanwritetheletterstraightoffwhichIhavebeguneversomanytimes.Ihavejustcomein;Ihaveflungdownmyhatandmystick;Iamwritingthefirstthingthatcomesintomyheadwithouttroublingtoputthepaperstraight.Itisgoingtobeabrilliantsketchwhich,shemustthink,waswrittenwithoutapause,withoutanerasure.Lookhowunformedthelettersare--thereisacarelessblot.Allmustbesacrificedtospeedandcarelessness.Iwillwriteaquick,running,smallhand,exaggeratingthedownstrokeofthe"y"andcrossingthe"t"thus--withadash.ThedateshallbeonlyTuesday,the17th,andthenaquestionmark.ButalsoImustgivehertheimpressionthatthoughhe--forthisisnotmyself--iswritinginsuchanoff-hand,suchaslap-dashway,thereissomesubtlesuggestionofintimacyandrespect.Imustalludetotalkswehavehadtogether--bringbacksomerememberedscene.ButImustseemtoher(thisisveryimportant)tobepassingfromthingtothingwiththegreatesteaseintheworld.