"Colin Wilson - The Glass Cage" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wilson Colin)

example, I was talking with an old boy the other day, and it turned out that his father had been on that
last expedition with Scott of the Antarctic."
Reade said, "I see your point."
Lund suspected disagreement. He said, "But then, you don't really get a chance to judge, do
you? I mean, living in this place? You don't see many people. Don't you ever get fed up with doing the
same thing day after day -- no offense meant?"
"The same thing?"
"Yes, you know, writing about Blake? If you'll excuse me saying so, it's not the kind of thing I'd
enjoy. Mind, I enjoy reading, I read a lot of stuff. Have you read Neville Shute? There's a lot in him."
Reade shook his head, and the silence was heavy for a moment.
Lund had flushed slightly. He said, "You won't think I'm trying to be offensive?"
"Not at all."
"But you know. . . writing about somebody else's books all the time. Or perhaps I'm wrong?
Perhaps there's more to it than that?"
His sincerity was obvious, so it was impossible to be offended. Reade was struck with an idea;
he would claim that he had to walk to the village to do some shopping, and they could walk down
together. This cheered him, and the prospect of being alone again in half an hour made him decide to try
to answer the question. He said, "There's no need to apologize. But you see, I always wanted to live
alone in some quiet place. Even when I was a child I used to dream about living on an island -- or at the
North Pole, deep inside a mountain of ice. I suppose you'd call it escapism. I just didn't enjoy having to
live -- or rather, to do all the things that constitute living. I used to read a lot of adventure stories -- Rider
Haggard and Conan Doyle and all that. Mind, I lived in quite a pleasant town -- Lichfield, in
Staffordshire. It would have been far worse if I'd been in Liverpool or Birmingham. But I simply had a
strong sense of wanting something else -- something apart from the things people do with their lives."
Lund shrugged. He said, "But most people feel that way. Everybody wants to be rich. We'd all
like to be able to hop on a plane to Calcutta or Hong Kong."
"No, not to be rich. I never wanted to be rich. Even when I was small, I never dreamed about
money or travel. I enjoyed reading about King Solomon's mines, but I didn't really want to travel. I once
went to Scarborough in a car and was sick all the way. And I used to get so bored with train journeys
after the first half hour. But when I started reading poetry at the age of thirteen or so, I knew I wanted to
be a poet. Then when I left school, I went to Sheffield University for three years, but I hated that too. I
was supposed to be studying literature with a view to becoming a teacher. Then an uncle died and left me
a little money. He said he wasn't going to leave me much, because he didn't want to encourage my
laziness, but that he'd leave enough to give me a start in life. He reckoned without my ingenuity. This
cottage cost me thirty pounds -- and then the locals said I'd been swindled. And I can live on almost
nothing -- on so little that you wouldn't believe me if I told you. And that's all I ever asked -- a place of
my own."
Lund said doubtfully, "And you write poetry?"
"No. I used to in my teens. But I soon discovered I hadn't the talent. But I read poetry -- Blake,
Wordsworth, Shelley. And I don't feel I'm wasting my life. . ."
He stopped. Lund was looking depressed. He was staring at the rain running down the windows.
Finally he knocked out his pipe on the hearthstone and cleared his throat. He said, "Well, to be honest. It
wouldn't suit me at all, sir. I'd find it too quiet."
His use of "sir" indicated that their conversation had come to a kind of stop. Lund stood up and
went over to the window. He said, "I like peace and quiet, but not too much of it. I think you'd enjoy
being a detective. . ."
"Oh, but I am a detective -- or a kind of one. So was Blake." He laughed at the expression of
incomprehension on Lund's face. "That's why I always wanted to live alone. While you're engaged in
living -- dashing about and doing things -- you never have time to wonder what it's all about. But I always
wanted to know what it was all about. Then you look at people and wonder what's wrong with them.