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

"I don't think so. But you see, I don't read them very carefully."
"Do you reply to them?"
"Sometimes. Not very often. Writing letters bores me."
In the sitting room, Sarah threw more coal onto the fire. Lewis relaxed in the enormous armchair
whose springs had been broken to his weight.
"Spot of whiskey?"
"No, thanks. I haven't really recovered from last night."
"I think I'll have some."
Sarah took a whiskey bottle from a cupboard and poured a drink. She filled the glass almost to
the top with soda water.
Lewis said, "Tell me, Damon, why don't you go to London and see if you can track this
murderer?"
Sarah said, "How on earth could he?"
Reade said, smiling, "I don't think I'd make a very efficient detective."
"Why not? You're obviously interested in the case."
"Not really," Reade said uncomfortably.
"Of course you are. Why did you come all the way back if you're not interested?"
Sarah had gone into the kitchen. Her absence made Reade feel less constrained. He said, "If you
want to know the real reason, I felt horribly gloomy and depressed after the detective left. I felt like
talking to you."
Lewis said, "Hmmm." He took a long sip of the whiskey, then put the glass on the table. He
smiled. "You know, Damon, I've often accused you of keeping your head in the sand. Well, isn't this a
case in point? Why do a few murders depress you? There are thousands of murders every day."
"Yes, I know. It's difficult to explain. It's not just the fact of murder. Most murders aren't
premeditated -- they're just blows struck in anger. But there's something about this man. . . He's
obviously educated. Worse still, he's familiar with Blake. That's what baffles me. Do you see? If he
knows Blake, he can't be entirely a lost soul, can he?"
"Why not?" Lewis asked, smiling blandly.
"Well. . . because a total materialist never gets around to reading Blake. After all, he's not taught
in schools."
"I don't see your point. Blake is a religious poet. I don't regard myself as religious, so I don't find
him interesting. But the world's full of people who've gone insane through too much brooding on religion."
"That's not the point," Reade said doggedly. "Religious cranks study the Apocalypse and the
Book of Daniel and all that. Blake's a different matter entirely."
As he said this he was aware that he was contradicting what he had said to Lund: that Blake was
a happy hunting ground for cranks. He was not saying what he meant, and it depressed him. Luckily,
Lewis changed the direction of the conversation.
"I can see what you're trying to say. But there's a fallacy in it. Look at me. I'm not what you call a
'lost soul,' am I? I live what you'd call the 'life of the mind.' Does it follow that I'm totally incapable of
murder?"
"I hope so," Reade said, smiling.
"What you mean is that you hope I'm never driven to the point where I commit one. I'm more
capable of murder than most people in this town because I'm more intelligent, and consequently more
inclined to nervous strain. More frustrated, if you like."
Reade did not like his smile, nor the tone of his voice. He said quickly, "But that's only a manner
of speaking. We often say we'd like to murder someone. . ."
"You're mistaken. It's not a manner of speaking. I'm speaking about the urge to release inner
tension by an act of violence. And the reason that most of us don't explode into violence is because we're
afraid. Why do you suppose most rapes are committed by men who've been drinking? Because they
cease to be afraid, they lose their inhibitions. The more intelligent you are, the more you detest modern