Коллекционер

           Iwascrying.

           Myemotionsarealltopsy-turvy,likefrightenedmonkeysinacage.IfeltIwasgoingmadlastnight,soIwroteandwroteandwrotemyselfintotheotherworld.Toescapeinspirit,ifnotinfact.Toproveitstillexists.

           I’vebeenmakingsketchesforapaintingIshalldowhenI’mfree.Aviewofagardenthroughadoor.Itsoundssillyinwords.ButIseeitassomethingveryspecial,allblack,umber,dark,darkgrey,mysteriousangularformsinshadowleadingtothedistantsofthoney-whitishsquareofthelight-filleddoor.Asortofhorizontalshaft.

           IsenthimawayaftersupperandI’vebeenfinishingEmma.IamEmmaWoodhouse.Ifeelforher,ofherandinher.Ihaveadifferentsortofsnobbism,butIunderstandhersnobbism.Herpriggishness.Iadmireit.Iknowshedoeswrongthings,shetriestoorganizeotherpeople’slives,shecan’tseeMr.Knightleyisamaninamillion.She’stemporarilysilly,yetallthetimeoneknowsshe’sbasicallyintelligent,alive.Creative,determinedtosetthehigheststandards.Arealhumanbeing.Herfaultsaremyfaults:hervirtuesImustmakemyvirtues.

           AndalldayI’vebeenthinking—IshallwritesomemoreaboutG.P.tonight.

           TherewasthetimeItooksomeofmyworkroundforhimtolookat.ItookthethingsIthoughthewouldlike(notjusttheclever-cleverthings,liketheperspectiveofLadymont).Hedidn’tsayathingashelookedthroughthem.