"Carol Emshwiller - Acceptance Speech (2)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Emshwiller Carol)

nails grow, too, by then, so that I could do that, though I was clumsy at it.)

Then it was that he (and you) were all kindnesses, but especially he the
Humble-Master, waiting on me hand and foot (ear and tail as you would say)
held
the wine glass to to my lips, brushed back my curls. His ears always pricked
forward now and his tail moved in a slow, contented back and forth. He waited
by
me even all night long. I could see his eyes glow when he was awake and
watching
me. I felt he liked me, perhaps even loved me, and I began to like him, too,
though I could make out nothing about him. I could speak your syllables, but I
understood nothing of anything, neither of poetry, nor of love, nor of liking.
It seemed that, as I learned more, I understood less and less

But I lay back and rested, grateful for the care and only woke out of my happy
dream of no more whipping, no more groveling, not even, anymore, to answer:
"Ab-so-lu-la-lat-ly" -- only woke up to my thoughts again the day he shaved my
head...Cut off my curls and then shaved me. He did it. My (I thought of him as
mine now) my president, my Humble-Master-of-the-Poem, did it all gently, as,
now, he always was with me. Then he turned away and did the same to himself,
cut
his curls and shaved his head. After that he gave me the lick that was his
kiss
(on each of my eyelids) and motioned me to do the same to him. I felt the soft
vulnerability of his closed eyes. Then he brought out a box for me and left
me,
for the first time -- the first time on this world -- completely alone. I had
been watched and studied from the moment I came here and then tortured and
then
kept awake and kept talking and only now left alone, with a few blossoms
strewn
about the table (whether for decoration or a snack, I couldn't guess).

I knelt by the box and opened it. At first I couldn't tell what it was except
that it was something to wear and that what lay on top of it was a helmet. The
helmet was covered with a glassy, red enamel and the sign of the poet was on
the
front -- not just the sign of any poet, but the sign of the president,
Humble-Master-of-the-Poem...his sign was on the front of it, but one of my own
short poems was written -- embroidered, actually, along the red and white flag
that feathered from the top and unfurled as I took the helmet from the box. My
poem, all there in a long line: IF THE SOUND OF THE SNAP, THEN NO PAIN
THEREFORE
JOY.

The helmet exactly fit my now bald head. The ear holes had been moved from the
top to the side in order fit my ears. Under the helmet was a breastplate
exactly
right for my strange, flat chest, jointed mitts that would fit my hands only,