Волны

           ShallIalwaysdrawtheredsergecurtaincloseandseemybook,laidlikeablockofmarble,paleunderthelamp?Thatwouldbeagloriouslife,toaddictoneselftoperfection;tofollowthecurveofthesentencewhereveritmightlead,intodeserts,underdriftsofsand,regardlessoflures,ofseductions;tobepooralwaysandunkempt;toberidiculousinPiccadilly.

           ’ButIamtoonervoustoendmysentenceproperly.Ispeakquickly,asIpaceupanddown,toconcealmyagitation.Ihateyourgreasyhandkerchiefs--youwillstainyourcopyofDonJuan.Youarenotlisteningtome.YouaremakingphrasesaboutByron.Andwhileyougesticulate,withyourcloak,yourcane,Iamtryingtoexposeasecrettoldtonobodyyet;Iamaskingyou(asIstandwithmybacktoyou)totakemylifeinyourhandsandtellmewhetherIamdoomedalwaystocauserepulsioninthoseIlove?

           ’Istandwithmybacktoyoufidgeting.No,myhandsarenowperfectlystill.Precisely,openingaspaceinthebookcase,IinsertDonJuan;there.Iwouldratherbeloved,Iwouldratherbefamousthanfollowperfectionthroughthesand.ButamIdoomedtocausedisgust?AmIapoet?Takeit.Thedesirewhichisloadedbehindmylips,coldaslead,fellasabullet,thethingIaimatshop-girls,women,thepretence,thevulgarityoflife(becauseIloveit)shootsatyouasIthrow--catchit--mypoem.’

           ’Hehasshotlikeanarrowfromtheroom,’saidBernard.’Hehasleftmehispoem.Ofriendship,ItoowillpressflowersbetweenthepagesofShakespeare’ssonnets!Ofriendship,howpiercingareyourdarts--there,there,againthere.