Волны

           Howsatisfactory,theatmosphereofcommonsenseandtobacco;oldwomenclamberingintothethird-classcarriagewiththeirbaskets;thesuckingatpipes;thegood-nightsandseeyoutomorrowsoffriendspartingatwaysidestations,andthenthelightsofLondon--nottheflaringecstasyofyouth,notthattatteredvioletbanner,butstillthelightsofLondonallthesame;hard,electriclights,highupinoffices;streetlampslacedalongdrypavements;flaresroaringabovestreetmarkets.IlikeallthiswhenIhavedespatchedtheenemyforamoment.

           ’AlsoIliketofindthepageantofexistenceroaring,inatheatreforinstance.Theclay-coloured,earthynondescriptanimalofthefieldhereerectshimselfandwithinfiniteingenuityandeffortputsupafightagainstthegreenwoodsandgreenfieldsandsheepadvancingwithmeasuredtread,munching.And,ofcourse,windowsinthelonggreystreetswerelitup;stripsofcarpetcutthepavement;thereweresweptandgarnishedrooms,fire,food,wine,talk.Menwithwitheredhands,womenwithpearlpagodashangingfromtheirears,cameinandwentout.Isawoldmen’sfacescarvedintowrinklesandsneersbytheworkoftheworld;beautycherishedsothatitseemednewlysprungeveninage;andyouthsoaptforpleasurethatpleasure,onethought,mustexist;itseemedthatgrass-landsmustrollforit;andtheseabechoppedupintolittlewaves;andthewoodsrustlewithbright-colouredbirdsforyouth,foryouthexpectant.