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

simpler to let her assume he meant because he was with her. Besides, it was not entirely untrue. . . but
that was only a part of it.
As they drew near to the front door of the house, both quickened their pace, feeling guilty about
Lewis, wondering if he resented their absence. But he was in a good mood; he was reading B├йroalde de
Verville and chuckling aloud. The glass by his elbow was empty. He looked up, smiling, and said, "Back
already?"


Lewis liked meals to be leisurely affairs. He had once said, "If I ever became rich, I'd move to
London and spend my declining days cultivating good companions and good food." Reade often had the
uncomfortable feeling that he was rather a poor second best for the kind of companions Lewis would
have preferred: Peacockian philosophers and connoisseurs of old claret.
Over supper, which lasted an hour, Reade made the acquaintance of another aspect of his host:
his interest in murder. Lewis began by talking about De Quincey, and his theory that Kant was murdered;
then he passed on to the Ratcliffe Highway murders. When Sarah objected that all murder is, by its very
nature, uninteresting, he took this as a challenge and spoke at length about the Lizzie Borden case, about
which his knowledge seemed to be detailed and encyclopedic.
While Sarah was out making the coffee, Reade said, "I take your point, of course. But while
you're talking about the interest of the murder, you seem to forget that it involved the death of a human
being. You speak as if it's all a game. I've never heard of this Edmund Pearson you keep quoting, but he
sounds an idiot."
 Lewis said, sighing, "Possibly he was. But you're always so intolerant, Damon. He wrote well
and interestingly. Surely that's enough?"
"Well, no. Because it sounds to me as if he's a kind of a liar as well. He's trying to pretend that
murder's something that it's not. He's trying to sound blase and cynical about it. . ."
He stopped, suddenly aware that the same criticisms applied to Lewis, and was unwilling to
make an issue of it. Sarah came in with the coffee, so that he hoped the thread of the conversation had
been lost. But when the coffee was poured, and he was seated in his armchair, his feet on a stool, Lewis
said, "I think you're both being unfair about this. Of course many murders are stupid. Most murders are
stupid. Look at this youth in Cockermouth who murdered an old man for three pounds ten."
He sucked at the pipe, then waved its stem rhythmically back and forth -- one of his favorite
gestures when talking about something that interested him: a sign that he did not wish to be interrupted.
"For after all, Damon, what is the essence of crime? Materiality! The grossness and stupidity of matter.
All true idealists feel that ugliness is a crime. They feel that stupidity's a crime. Everything that violates our
idealism is a crime. Didn't Blake say as much? Crime is the opposite of poetry, in the way that matter is
the opposite of spirit. Don't interrupt -- I'm coming to my point. You must admit that by this standard
your Thames murderer has a touch of the artist."
As Reade shook his head, Lewis said, "But you must agree that he has a sense of effect? You
said yourself that he seems to be an exhibitionist. And what is an artist but an exhibitionist? Actors and
novelists and poets all set out to achieve effects. The means, the mode of expression are everything. On
the other hand, the common criminal cares only for the end -- the five pounds in the till, or whatever it is.
He doesn't care if he uses a bludgeon or a revolver or a knife."
A bottle of the Beaujolais stood in the hearth; he bent down and filled his glass, then sipped it. He
said contentedly, "You and I disagree on many things -- on most things, in fact. But I think there's one
thing that we undoubtedly have in common: a loathing of the ugly and the sordid and the stupid -- in
short, of matter. We're both builders of castles in the air. Do you agree?"
Reade asked, smiling, "What are you trying to prove?"
"Nothing. I'm not arguing. I'm merely remarking on something that interests me. That your
Thames murderer's out of the common run -- he has a touch of the artist about him. Do you know how
I'd set about finding him? I'd make inquiries at art schools about pupils who didn't quite make the grade.