Коллекционер

           Butyouhavetoforceyourselftoacceptthetruth—thatParisisalwaysanescapedownwards(G.P.’swords)—notsayinganythingagainstParis,butyouhavetofaceuptoEnglandandtheapathyoftheenvironment(theseareallG.P.’swordsandideas)andthegreatdeadweightoftheCalibanityofEngland.

           AndtherealsaintsarepeoplelikeMooreandSutherlandwhofighttobeEnglishartistsinEngland.LikeConstableandPalmerandBlake.

           AnotherthingIsaidtoCalibantheotherday—wewerelisteningtojazz—Isaid,don’tyoudigthis?Andhesaid,inthegarden.Isaidhewassosquarehewashardlycredible.Oh,that,hesaid.

           Likerain,endlessdrearyrain.Colour-killing.

           I’veforgottentowritedownthebaddreamIhadlastnight.Ialwaysseemtogetthematdawn,it’ssomethingtodowiththestuffinessofthisroomafterI’vebeenlockedinitforanight.(Therelief—whenhecomesandthedoorisopen,andthefanon.I’veaskedhimtoletmegostraightoutandbreathethecellarair,buthealwaysmakesmewaittillI’vehadbreakfast.AsIthinkhemightnotletmehavemyhalf-hourinmidmorningifheletmegooutearlier,Idon’tinsist.)

           Thedreamwasthis.I’ddoneapainting.Ican’treallyre-memberwhatitwaslikebutIwasverypleasedwithit.Itwasathome.IwentoutandwhileIwasoutIknewsomethingwaswrong.Ihadtogethome.WhenIrusheduptomyroomMwastheresittingatthepembroketable(Minnywasstandingbythewall—lookingfrightened,IthinkG.P.