Хвилі

           Ifindmarksagainstallthosesentenceswhichseemtoexpressasardonicyetpassionatenature;amoth-likeimpetuositydashingitselfagainsthardglass.Youthought,asyoudrewyourpencilthere,"Itoothrowoffmycloaklikethat.Itoosnapmyfingersinthefaceofdestiny."YetByronnevermadeteaasyoudo,whofillthepotsothatwhenyouputthelidontheteaspillsover.Thereisabrownpoolonthetable--itisrunningamongyourbooksandpapers.Nowyoumopitup,clumsily,withyourpocket-handkerchief.Youthenstuffyourhandkerchiefbackintoyourpocket--thatisnotByron;thatisyou;thatissoessentiallyyouthatifIthinkofyouintwentyyears’time,whenwearebothfamous,goutyandintolerable,itwillbebythatscene:andifyouaredead,Ishallweep.OnceyouwereTolstoi’syoungman;nowyouareByron’syoungman;perhapsyouwillbeMeredith’syoungman;thenyouwillvisitParisintheEastervacationandcomebackwearingablacktie,somedetestableFrenchmanwhomnobodyhaseverheardof.ThenIshalldropyou.

           ’Iamoneperson--myself.IdonotimpersonateCatullus,whomIadore.Iamthemostslavishofstudents,withhereadictionary,thereanotebookinwhichIentercurioususesofthepastparticiple.Butonecannotgoonforevercuttingtheseancientinscriptionsclearerwithaknife.