Волны

           Andyouseebehindmethedooropening,andpeoplepassing.Butinordertomakeyouunderstand,togiveyoumylife,Imusttellyouastory--andtherearesomany,andsomany--storiesofchildhood,storiesofschool,love,marriage,death,andsoon;andnoneofthemaretrue.Yetlikechildrenwetelleachotherstories,andtodecoratethemwemakeuptheseridiculous,flamboyant,beautifulphrases.HowtiredIamofstories,howtiredIamofphrasesthatcomedownbeautifullywithalltheirfeetontheground!Also,howIdistrustneatdesignsoflifethataredrawnuponhalf-sheetsofnote-paper.Ibegintolongforsomelittlelanguagesuchasloversuse,brokenwords,inarticulatewords,liketheshufflingoffeetonthepavement.Ibegintoseeksomedesignmoreinaccordancewiththosemomentsofhumiliationandtriumphthatcomenowandthenundeniably.Lyinginaditchonastormyday,whenithasbeenraining,thenenormouscloudscomemarchingoverthesky,tatteredclouds,wispsofcloud.Whatdelightsmethenistheconfusion,theheight,theindifferenceandthefury.Greatcloudsalwayschanging,andmovement;somethingsulphurousandsinister,bowledup,helter-skelter;towering,trailing,brokenoff,lost,andIforgotten,minute,inaditch.Ofstory,ofdesign,Idonotseeatracethen.

           ’Butmeanwhile,whileweeat,letusturnoverthesescenesaschildrenturnoverthepagesofapicture-bookandthenursesays,pointing:"That’sacow.That’saboat."Letusturnoverthepages,andIwilladd,foryouramusement,acommentinthemargin.