"John Norman - Gor 22 - Dancer of Gor " - читать интересную книгу автора (Norman John)

afraid, sweating and distraught, native to my very nature. But such a
nature, I wept, could not be, and if it were, so subtle, so insistent, so
persistent, so unrelenting, so tenacious, it must never be admitted,
never, never! Yes, I fought them, these secrets, these covert
knowledges, these anticipations, these dreams. Yes, I struggled, in
accord with the demands of my culture, my training and education,
these things telling me how I must be, how I must be as I was told to
be, to drive them from me. I repudiated them, again and again, but
to no avail. They returned, ever again, mercilessly, horrifying me,
taunting and mocking me, stripping me in the darkness of my bed of
my pretenses and lies. I squirmed and thrashed in my bed, twisting
and weeping, pounding it with my fists, crying out, тАЮNo! No!тАЬ Then
I would put my head fearfully on my pillow, dampened with
meaningless, rebellious tears. Could I be so weak and terrible?
Could I be truly so different from others? Surely there could be no
one in the world so degraded, so shameful and terrible as myself.
Then one night I rose from bed and went to the vanity and lit the
small candle there. I had bought this candle weeks before, probably
because deep within me, within my deepest self, in my anguished
mind, in my tortured breast and heart, I knew this night would
come. I lit the small candle. I stood there in the flickering light, for
some minutes, looking at myself. I wore a white nightgown, ankle
length. I had dark hair and eyes. At that time my hair was cut at
shoulder length. Then, not looking back to the mirror, I crept in the
candlelight and shadows to the dresser and there, from beneath
several layers of garments, where I had concealed it, I drew forth a
small bit of



7
scarlet cloth, tiny and silken, with shoulder straps, a garment I had
myself sewn weeks ago, one in which, save for fittings, often done
by feel, with my eyes closed, I never even dared to look upon
myself. This, in a sense, was the third such garment I had attempted.
The material for the first, not yet even touched by need and thread,
or scissors, I had suddenly discarded in terror, months ago. I had
actually begun work on the second garment, some two months ago,
but, in touching it to my body, for it was the sort of garment which
touches the body directly, with no intervening investiture, I had
suddenly, comprehending its meaning and nature, begun to shake
with terror and, scarcely knowing what I was doing, I feverishly cut
and tore it to pieces, and threw it away! But even as I had destroyed
it I knew, weeping and distraught, terrified. I would make another. I
took the third garment from the drawer. Suddenly I thrust I back in
the drawer, again under the other garments, thrusting shut the
drawer. Then, after a moment, breathing heavily, trembling, I
opened the drawer again, and removed it, once more, from its place.
I went back to the vanity not looking in the mirror. I dropped the bit
of scarlet silk near my feet on the rug. I was trembling. It seemed I