"Richard Matheson - What Dreams May Come" - читать интересную книгу автора (Matheson Richard)

fog, lying on the ground. Standing slowly, every muscle aching, I tried to walk but couldn't. I
was on the bottom of a murky lake whose currents swelled against me.

Inanely, I felt hungry. No, that's not the proper word. In need of sustenance. No, more than that.
In need of something to add to myself, to help me re-assemble. That was it. I was incomplete; part
of me was gone. I tried to think but found it beyond my capacity. Thoughts trickled in my brain
like glue. Let go, was all I could think. Let go.

I saw a pale white column of light take form in front of me, a figure inside it. "You wish my
help?" it asked. My mind was not perceptive enough to tell if it was male or female.

I tried to speak, then, from a distance, heard Ann call my name again and looked around.

"You could be here for a long time," said the figure. "Take my hand."

I looked back at it. "Do I know you?" I asked. I could hardly speak, my voice sounding lifeless.

"That's not important now," the figure said. "Just take my hand."

I stared at it with vacant eyes. Ann called my name again, and I shook my head. The figure was
trying to take me from her. I wouldn't let it do that. "Get away," I said. "I'm going to my wife."

I was alone in fog once more. "Ann?" I called. I felt cold and fearful. "Ann, where are you?" My
voice was dead. "I can't see you."

Something began to draw me through the mist. Something else attempted to restrain me but I willed
it off; it wasn't Ann, I knew that, and I had to be with Ann. She was all that mattered to me.

The fog began to thin and I found myself able to advance. There was something familiar about the
landscape in front of me: broad, green lawns with rows of metal plaques flush with the surface,
bouquets of flowers here and there, some dead, some dying, some fresh. I had been here before.

I walked toward a distant figure sitting on the grass. Where had I seen this place? I wondered,
trying hard to recollect. At last, like a bubble forced up through a sea of ooze, memory rose.
Vaughn. Somebody's son. We'd known him. He was buried here. How long ago? the question came. I
couldn't answer it. Time seemed an enigma beyond solution.

I saw, now, that the figure was Ann and moved toward her as quickly as I could, my feelings a
blend of joy and sorrow; I didn't know why.

Reaching her, I spoke her name. She made no sign that she had seen or heard me and, for some
inexplicable reason, I now found myself unsurprised by that. I sat beside her on the grass and put
my arm around her. I felt nothing and she did not respond in any way, staring at the ground. I
tried to understand what was happening but there was no way I could. "Ann, I love you," I
murmured. It was all my mind could summon. "I'll always love you, Ann." Despair began to blanket
me. I gazed at the ground where she was looking. There were flowers and a metal plaque.

Christopher Nielsen/1927-1974. I stared at the plaque, too shocked to react. Vaguely, I recalled
some man addressing me, trying to convince me that I'd died. Had it been a dream? Was this a
dream? I shook my head. For some reason I could not fathom, the concept that this was a dream was