Волны

           Therefore,Iletflymytremendousbatteryofphrasesuponsomebodyquiteinappropriate--agirlnowmarried,nowburied;everybook,everywindow-seatwaslitteredwiththesheetsofmyunfinishedletterstothewomanwhomademeByron.Foritisdifficulttofinishaletterinsomebodyelse’sstyle.Iarrivedallinalatheratherhouse;exchangedtokensbutdidnotmarryher,beingnodoubtunripeforthatintensity.

           ’Hereagainthereshouldbemusic.Notthatwildhunting-song,Percival’smusic;butapainful,guttural,visceral,alsosoaring,lark-like,pealingsongtoreplacetheseflagging,foolishtranscripts--howmuchtoodeliberate!howmuchtooreasonable!--whichattempttodescribetheflyingmomentoffirstlove.Apurpleslideisslippedovertheday.Lookataroombeforeshecomesandafter.Lookattheinnocentsoutsidepursuingtheirway.Theyneitherseenorhear;yetontheygo.Movingoneselfinthisradiantyetgummyatmospherehowconsciousoneisofeverymovement--somethingadheres,somethingstickstoone’shands,takingupanewspapereven.Thenthereisthebeingeviscerated--drawnout,spunlikeaspider’swebandtwistedinagonyroundathorn.