"Sonya Dorman - The Sons of Bingaloo" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dorman Sonya)

a certain kind in the brain, recording quality only, whether of five lines or ten pages, and the stories of
great poets, how they remembered the colors and flashing which occurred on their finest occasions.
Memee had said to him, тАЬOh, Pettrey, why canтАЩt we settle down, somewhere and be like other
people.тАЭ Though she knew he didnтАЩt wish to settle down, and that term тАЬother peopleтАЭ was meaningless
to him, since no person was another person, and he was most entirely himself
Again he took up the gernsey point, with its soft gray writing unit, and began to work in earnest, which
meant that for the first time since entering the room he was able to smile a little, to be amused at his own
problems, which he should be used to by now. A little self-consciousness remained to him at first, until
seven or eight lines were written.
Very gradually, he worked in deeper and deeper, feeling the imaginary valve in his forehead open wide
so that the ancestral memories, the images of dream and superconsciousness, could be freed for use. A
little fire appeared in the room near the ceiling above him. One prism twinkled. Another shimmered. The
lines he wrote grew more dense and he threw the finished page to the floor and took up a new one.
Prisms, like antlers, grew upward from his forehead. Fire flickered and danced, growing more rapid
and intricate. The whole chandelier, enormous flame cage of glassy spires, crystal stalactites, loosening
teardrops, began to wink and flare, began slowly to swing in ponderous and gorgeous rhythm above
him.
Pettrey went on writing his poem. The recordings taken by the computer, masked as a decorative unit,
would be read and filed and licensed. There was no one in the room to watch the prisms give off their
radiance, no one to appreciate the flashings that would fall still as soon as the poet ceased writing.
Perhaps Pettrey was aware of the dance above him, but only on a deep and quiet level. What he really
felt, while he worked, was a profound sense of love, a form of praise, perhaps, rising from his heart. He
was unaware that it bypassed his conscious mind entirely, and would have denied that, if someone told
him about it.
Pettrey did think he might go on forever, at this rate, and asked nothing more of life than that he should
do so, but abruptly, and long before he was ready, the work was finished. He knew it by instinct.
Anything he might add now would be a frivolity, and would have to be cut later on.
He put down the gernsey point. He picked up the sheets of paper he had thrown to the floor, and
placed them, neatly folded, in the inside pocket of his cloak. He supposed they would be worth
publishing, after a period of cooling off, and some weeks of polishing. In any event, it wasnтАЩt necessary
for them to be seen by anyone in their rough stage.
 Pettrey was happy. The sense of love remained with him. It was not love of himself as an individual,
but love of his place in the world, and the joy of what he was able to do. He wished everyone well,
Massony, younger men, and the oldsters. Glowing, he crossed to the exit door, which led him out to the
other side of the building. Two young men, both of them evidently successful, were having refreshments
near the door.
тАЬCome and join us,тАЭ they invited him.
тАЬNo, thank you, IтАЩm going to wait outside for a friend,тАЭ Pettrey said. тАЬThank you, though. ItтАЩs been a
good day, hasnтАЩt it, gentlemen?тАЭ
Whether it was the strength of their drinks, or whether their testing had been over for too long a time,
he didnтАЩt know, but in spite of their hearty invitation, they looked sideways at him. He recognized the old
green faces of envy and aspiration, which so often went together. Though he knew there was no reason
for it, there was enough room for them all. The license to practice oneтАЩs art guaranteed that.
Pettrey had told the truth about waiting for a friend; he just did not feel like remaining indoors. There
was a bench near some colorful flowers and he sat down there, with the edge of his eye on the door.
After a while, the two young men came out together and walked away. Pettrey almost snoozed, utterly
relaxed.
Hunger made him come to, and he glanced at the day, green and bright around him. But after all, he
was not that old, to run home for a meal at the first hunger pang, and as he had planned to wait, no
matter how long, he did so. Not without a twinge of wonder at himself, his possible folly.