"Thomas M. Disch M. - Come to Venus Melancholy" - читать интересную книгу автора (Disch Thomas M)

The thing is that thereтАЩs an immense curiosity between the
sexes that almost never is satisfied. Things that men never know
about women, and vice versa. Even between a man and a wife,
there is a gulf of unmentionables. Maybe especially between a man
and a wife. But between John and me there seemed to be nothing
to prevent perfect candor. What possible harm could it do?
ThenтАж the next thingтАж I donтАЩt remember which of us
started that either. We should have known better. The borderline
between perfect candor and erotic fantasy is no wider than an
adjective. But it happened imperceptibly, and before we knew quite
what we were doing, it had been done. It was already a habit.
When I realized exactly what we were doing, of course, I laid
down the law. It was an unhealthy situation, it had to stop. At first
John as agreeable. He was embarrassed, like a little boy whoтАЩs been
found out in some naughtiness. We told each other it was over and
done with.
But it had become, as IтАЩve said, a habit. I have a rather more
vivid imagination than John and he had grown dependent on me.
He asked for new stories, and I refused. He got angry then and
wouldnтАЩt speak to me, and finally I gave in. I was in love with him,
you see, in my own ectoplasmic way, and this was all I could do to
show it.
Every day he wanted a new story. ItтАЩs hard to make the same
tired old tale seem new in every telling. Scheherazade was supposed
to have stood up for a thousand and one nights, but after only
thirty I was wearing thin. Under the strain I sort of retreated into
myself.
I read poetry, lots of poetry, but mostly Milton. Milton has a
very calming effect on meтАФlike a mil-town if youтАЩll excuse the
pun.
The punтАФthatтАЩs what did it. It was the last turn of the screw,
a simple pun.
It seems that when I read, I sometimes read aloud without
realizing it. ThatтАЩs what John has told me. It was all right during the
day when he was off in the swamp, and when he was here in the
evenings weтАЩd talk with each other. But he needed more sleep than
I did, and when I was left on my own, after heтАЩd gone to bed, IтАЩd
read. There was nothing else to do. Usually IтАЩd read some long
Victorian novel, but at the time IтАЩm speaking of, I mostly read Il
Penseroso.
He shouldnтАЩt have made fun of it. I guess he didnтАЩt realize how
important it had become to me. It was like a pool of pure water in
which I could wash away the grime of each day. Or else he was
angry for being woken up.
Do you remember the part, right near the beginning, where it
says:
 тАЬBut hail, thou goddess sage and holy,
Hail divinest MelancholyтАЭ?