Спрут: Каліфорнійська історія
Chapter I
“Yes,yes,”heexclaimed,“Icanseeitall.Thedesert,themountains,allwild,primordial,untamed.HowIshouldhavelovedtohavebeenwithyou.Then,perhaps,Ishouldhavegotholdofmyidea.”
“Youridea?”
“ThegreatpoemoftheWest.It’sthatwhichIwanttowrite.Oh,toputitallintohexameters;strikethegreatironnote;singthevast,terriblesong;thesongofthePeople;theforerunnersofempire!”
Vanameeunderstoodhimperfectly.Henoddedgravely.
“Yes,itisthere.ItisLife,theprimitive,simple,directLife,passionate,tumultuous.Yes,thereisanepicthere.”
Presleycaughtattheword.Ithadneverbeforeoccurredtohim.
“Epic,yes,that’sit.ItistheepicI’msearchingfor.AndHOWIsearchforit.Youdon’tknow.Itissometimesalmostanagony.OftenandoftenIcanfeelitrightthere,there,atmyfinger-tips,butIneverquitecatchit.Italwayseludesme.Iwasborntoolate.Ah,togetbacktothatfirstclear-eyedviewofthings,toseeasHomersaw,asBeowulfsaw,astheNibelungenpoetssaw.Thelifeishere,thesameasthen;thePoemishere;myWestishere;theprimeval,epiclifeishere,hereunderourhands,inthedesert,inthemountain,ontheranch,alloverhere,fromWinnipegtoGuadalupe.Itisthemanwhoislacking,thepoet;wehavebeeneducatedawayfromitall.Weareoutoftouch.Weareoutoftune.”
Vanameeheardhimtotheend,hisgrave,sadfacethoughtfulandattentive.Thenherose.
“IamgoingovertotheMission,”hesaid,“toseeFatherSarria.Ihavenotseenhimyet.
