Хвилі

           Thechildwasasleep.Iwenttomyroom.

           ’Wastherenosword,nothingwithwhichtobatterdownthesewalls,thisprotection,thisbegettingofchildrenandlivingbehindcurtains,andbecomingdailymoreinvolvedandcommitted,withbooksandpictures?Betterburnone’slifeoutlikeLouis,desiringperfection;orlikeRhodaleaveus,flyingpastustothedesert;orchooseoneoutofmillionsandoneonlylikeNeville;betterbelikeSusanandloveandhatetheheatofthesunorthefrost-bittengrass;orbelikeJinny,honest,ananimal.Allhadtheirrapture;theircommonfeelingwithdeath;somethingthatstoodtheminstead.ThusIvisitedeachofmyfriendsinturn,trying,withfumblingfingers,topriseopentheirlockedcaskets.Iwentfromonetotheotherholdingmysorrow--no,notmysorrowbuttheincomprehensiblenatureofthisourlife--fortheirinspection.Somepeoplegotopriests;otherstopoetry;Itomyfriends,Itomyownheart,Itoseekamongphrasesandfragmentssomethingunbroken--Itowhomthereisnotbeautyenoughinmoonortree;towhomthetouchofonepersonwithanotherisall,yetwhocannotgraspeventhat,whoamsoimperfect,soweak,sounspeakablylonely.ThereIsat.

           ’Shouldthisbetheendofthestory?akindofsigh?alastrippleofthewave?Atrickleofwaterinsomegutterwhere,burbling,itdiesaway?Letmetouchthetable--so--andthusrecovermysenseofthemoment.Asideboardcoveredwithcruets;abasketfullofrolls;aplateofbananas--thesearecomfortablesights.