Атлант расправил плечи
The Theme
Hehadbecomeaccustomedtothefeeling,buthecouldfindnoexplanationforit; yetthebumhadspokenasifheknewthatEddiefeltit,asifhethoughtthatoneshouldfeelit,andmore:asifheknewthereason.
EddieWillerspulledhisshouldersstraight,inconscientiousself-discipline. Hehadtostopthis,hethought;hewasbeginningtoimaginethings. Hadhealwaysfeltit? Hewasthirty-twoyearsold. Hetriedtothinkback. No,hehadn’t;buthecouldnotrememberwhenithadstarted. Thefeelingcametohimsuddenly,atrandomintervals,andnowitwascomingmoreoftenthanever. It’sthetwilight,hethought;Ihatethetwilight.
Thecloudsandtheshaftsofskyscrapersagainstthemwereturningbrown,likeanoldpaintinginoil,thecolorofafadingmasterpiece. Longstreaksofgrimeranfromunderthepinnaclesdowntheslender,soot-eatenwalls.Highonthesideofatowertherewasacrackintheshapeofamotionlesslightning,thelengthoftenstories. Ajaggedobjectcuttheskyabovetheroofs;itwashalfaspire,stillholdingtheglowofthesunset; thegoldleafhadlongsincepeeledofftheotherhalf. Theglowwasredandstill,likethereflectionofafire: notanactivefire,butadyingonewhichitistoolatetostop.
No,thoughtEddieWillers,therewasnothingdisturbinginthesightofthecity.Itlookedasithadalwayslooked.
Hewalkedon,remindinghimselfthathewaslateinreturningtotheoffice. Hedidnotlikethetaskwhichhehadtoperformonhisreturn,butithadtobedone.
