"Tuttle-MeetingTheMuse" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tuttle Lisa)

at the signature in blue ink, the small, cramped hand. At first, the formality
of his full name, but the last two letters were signed simply G.

How that initial reverberated, how personal it became, how it haunted her! The
fact that it was one of her own initials did not detract but seemed to suggest a
connection between them, proof they had something in common.

Her handwriting altered under the impress of his. At first it was evident only
in the way she wrote the letter G, but soon she began to change the way she
signed her name, aspiring to make her signature more like his, and then,
unconsciously (for she had too small a sample of his to be able, consciously, to
copy it) the rest of her handwriting shifted in accord with her signature,
becoming smaller, neater, more precise.

She could not have said, later, when the plan began, but it was only natural,
loving him as she did, to want to meet him, and to try to think of ways. She
entertained fantasies of meeting him by chance: she would be walking along the
Drag one day, and there he'd be, walking toward her. The English Department did
sponsor a series of readings by established poets, it was not impossible that
they might invite Graham Storey. Or maybe he would read one of her poems,
several of which had been published in various little magazines, and be so
impressed that he'd write her a letter.

But she knew these were childish fantasies. Sometimes when she had spent too
long alone the vast, sad truth would nearly overwhelm her. No matter how much
she knew about him or how much more she learned, it would bring her no closer to
him while he continued unaware of her existence.

Time passed, and she went on loving him while she got her degree and got a job.
She went on living in Austin, in the same rather run-down apartment building
near the University, and continued to socialize with the same sort of people,
even sleeping with one or two of them, while still dreaming of the faraway
English poet and the very different life they might have together.

More than once she started a letter to him, but she always drew back from
mailing them, always in the end deciding to wait until she could meet him face
to face. Then, she felt sure, although she was certainly old enough to know
better, she would find a way to make him love her. So she dreamed, and wrote,
and worked hard, lived frugally, and saved every penny she could toward the
journey of a lifetime.

Standing in Victoria Station, alone amid the alien crowd, unreal-feeling from
jet-lag and lack of sleep, she stood and turned the tissue-thin pages of a
telephone book. The sight of his name thrilled her, as always, like a familiar
touch. Storey, G. All at once she felt more at home, able to deal with the
problem of finding herself somewhere to stay in this huge, foreign city.

The next day she set off for Harrow-on-the-Hill, which sounded to her as if it
should be inhabited by hobbits, but was apparently no more than one of the
farflung tendrils of London's contemporary sprawl, easily accessible by the