"Michael Moorcock - Breakfast in the Ruins" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moorcock Michael)

the unique creation of a dying middle-class. Vulgarity given a gloss of "good taste". Outside
London there were a few other spots like it. He had found the right atmosphere in the tea-gardens
of Surrey and Sussex, the parks in the richer suburbs of Dorking, Hove and Hay-wards Heath, all
created during the twenties and thirties when, to that same middle-class, confines had been a
synonym for beauty. For all he knew too well that the urge which took him so frequently to the
roof garden was both infantile and escapist, he tolerated it in himself. He would console himself
sardonically that, of all his other infantile and escapist pursuits - his collection of children's
books, his model soldiers - this was the cheapest. He no longer made any serious attempts to rid
himself of these unmanly habits. He was their slave, just as much as he was the slave of his
mother's childhood terrors; of the rich variety of horrors she had managed to introduce into his
own childhood.

Thinking about his childhood as he sat in his usual place on a soft summer's day in June 1971,
Karl wondered if his somewhat small creative gift was not, as most people would nowadays think,


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the result of his unstable upbringing at all. Perhaps, by virtue of his sensitivity, he had been
unduly prone to his mother's influence. Such an influence could actually stunt talent, maybe. He
did not like the drift of his thoughts. To follow their implications would be to offset the
effects of the garden. He smiled to himself and leaned back, breathing in the heavy scent of
snapdragons and tulips, believing, as he always did, that it was enough to admit a self-deception.
It was what he called self-knowledge. He peered up at the blue, uncluttered afternoon sky. The
hum of the traffic in the street far below could almost be the sound of summer insects in a
country garden. A country garden, long ago...

He leaned back on the bench a fraction more. He did not want to think about his mother, his
childhood as it actually was, the failure of his ambitions. He became a handsome young
aristocrat. He was a Regency buck relaxing from the wild London round of politics, gambling,
dueling and women. He had just come down to his Somerset estate and had been greeted by his
delightful young wife. He had married a sweet girl from these parts, the daughter of an old-
fashioned squire, and she was ecstatic that he had returned home, for she doted on him. It did
not occur to her to criticize the way he chose to live. As far as she was concerned, she existed
entirely for his pleasure. What was her name? Emma? Sophy? Or something a little more Greek,
perhaps?
The reverie was just beginning to develop into a full-scale fantasy when it was interrupted.

"Good afternoon." The voice was deep, slightly hesitant, husky. It shocked him and he opened his
eyes.

The face was quite close to his. Its owner was leaning down and its expression was amused. The
face was as dark and shining as ancient mahogany; almost black.

"Do you mind if I join you on this bench?" The tall black man sat down firmly.

Frustrated by the interruption Karl pretended an interest in a paving stone at his feet. He hated
people who tried to talk to him here, particularly when they broke into his daydreams.