Волны

           Yes,IholdGray’sElegyinonehand;withtheotherIscoopoutthebottomcrumpet,thathasabsorbedallthebutterandstickstothebottomoftheplate.Thisoffendsyou;Ifeelyourdistressacutely.Inspiredbyitandanxioustoregainyourgoodopinion,IproceedtotellyouhowIhavejustpulledPercivaloutofbed;Idescribehisslippers,histable,hisgutteredcandle;hissurlyandcomplainingaccentsasIpulltheblanketsoffhisfeet;heburrowinglikesomevastcocoonmeanwhile.Idescribeallthisinsuchawaythat,centredasyouareuponsomeprivatesorrow(forahoodedshapepresidesoverourencounter),yougiveway,youlaughanddelightinme.Mycharmandflowoflanguage,unexpectedandspontaneousasitis,delightsmetoo.Iamastonished,asIdrawtheveiloffthingswithwords,howmuch,howinfinitelymorethanIcansay,Ihaveobserved.MoreandmorebubblesintomymindasItalk,imagesandimages.This,Isaytomyself,iswhatIneed;why,Iask,canInotfinishtheletterthatIamwriting?Formyroomisalwaysscatteredwithunfinishedletters.Ibegintosuspect,whenIamwithyou,thatIamamongthemostgiftedofmen.Iamfilledwiththedelightofyouth,withpotency,withthesenseofwhatistocome.Blundering,butfervid,Iseemyselfbuzzingroundflowers,hummingdownscarletcups,makingbluefunnelsresoundwithmyprodigiousbooming.HowrichlyIshallenjoymyyouth(youmakemefeel).AndLondon.Andfreedom.Butstop.Youarenotlistening.Youaremakingsomeprotest,asyouslide,withaninexpressiblyfamiliargesture,yourhandalongyourknee.