Хвилі

           Butthenlikethelostandwailingdove,Ifindmyselffailing,fluttering,descendingandperchinguponsomecuriousgargoyle,somebatterednoseorabsurdtombstone,withhumour,withwonder,andsoagainwatchthesightseerswiththeirBaedekersshufflingpast,whiletheboy’svoicesoarsinthedomeandtheorgannowandthenindulgesinamomentofelephantinetriumph.Howthen,Iasked,wouldLouisroofusallin?Howwouldheconfineus,makeusone,withhisredink,withhisveryfinenib?Thevoicepeteredoutinthedome,wailing.

           ’Sointothestreetagain,swingingmystick,lookingatwiretraysinstationers’shop-windows,atbasketsoffruitgrowninthecolonies,murmuringPillicocksatonPillicock’shill,orHark,hark,thedogsdobark,orTheWorld’sgreatagebeginsanew,orComeaway,comeaway,death--minglingnonsenseandpoetry,floatinginthestream.Somethingalwayshastobedonenext.TuesdayfollowsMonday:Wednesday,Tuesday.Eachspreadsthesameripple.Thebeinggrowsrings,likeatree.Likeatree,leavesfall.

           ’ForonedayasIleantoveragatethatledintoafield,therhythmstopped;therhymesandthehummings,thenonsenseandthepoetry.Aspacewasclearedinmymind.Isawthroughthethickleavesofhabit.LeaningoverthegateIregrettedsomuchlitter,somuchunaccomplishmentandseparation,foronecannotcrossLondontoseeafriend,lifebeingsofullofengagements;nortakeshiptoIndiaandseeanakedmanspearingfishinbluewater.Isaidlifehadbeenimperfect,anunfinishingphrase.