"Atlas Shrugged - Ayn Rand" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rand Ayn)

Atlas Shrugged
Ayn Rand
PART I
NON-CONTRADICTION
CHAPTER I
THE THEME
"Who is John Galt?"
The light was ebbing, and Eddie Willers could not distinguish the bumтАЩs face.
The bum had said it simply, without expression. But from the sunset far at
the end of the street, yellow glints caught his eyes, and the eyes looked
straight at Eddie Willers, mocking and stillas if the question had been
addressed to the causeless uneasiness within him.
"Why did you say that?" asked Eddie Willers, his voice tense.
The bum leaned against the side of the doorway; a wedge of broken glass
behind him reflected the metal yellow of the sky.
"Why does it bother you?" he asked.
"It doesnтАЩt," snapped Eddie Willers.
He reached hastily into his pocket. The bum had stopped him and asked for a
dime, then had gone on talking, as if to kill that moment and postpone the
problem of the next. Pleas for dimes were so frequent in the streets these
days that it was not necessary to listen to explanations, and he had no
desire to hear the details of this bumтАЩs particular despair.
"Go get your cup of coffee," he said, handing the dime to the shadow that had
no face.
"Thank you, sir," said the voice, without interest, and the face leaned
forward for a moment. The face was wind-browned, cut by lines of weariness
and cynical resignation; the eyes were intelligent. Eddie Willers walked on,
wondering why he always felt it at this time of day, this sense of dread
without reason. No, he thought, not dread, thereтАЩs nothing to fear: just an
immense, diffused apprehension, with no source or object. He had become
accustomed to the feeling, but he could find no explanation for it; yet the
bum had spoken as if he knew that Eddie felt it, as if he thought that one
should feel it, and more: as if he knew the reason.
Eddie Willers pulled his shoulders straight, in conscientious
self-discipline. He had to stop this, he thought; he was beginning to imagine
things. Had he always felt it? He was thirty-two years old. He tried to think
back. No, he hadnтАЩt; but he could not remember when it had started. The
feeling came to him Suddenly, at random intervals, and now it was coming more
often than ever. ItтАЩs the twilight, he thought; I hate the twilight.
The clouds and the shafts of skyscrapers against them were turning brown,
like an old painting in oil, the color of a fading masterpiece. Long streaks of grime ran from under the pinnacles down the slender, soot-eaten walls.
High on the side of a tower there was a crack in the shape of a motionless
lightning, the length of ten stories. A jagged object cut the sky above the
roofs; it was half a spire, still holding the glow of the sunset; the gold
leaf had long since peeled off the other half. The glow was red and still,
like the reflection of a fire: not an active fire, but a dying one which it
is too late to stop.
No, thought Eddie Willers, there was nothing disturbing in the sight of the
city. It looked as it had always looked.
He walked on, reminding himself that he was late in returning to the office.