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

Reade felt that it was time for making concessions, and he nodded. Lewis gestured vaguely, as if
words failed him. It was another calculated effect; Reade had never known words to fail him. Then he
said vehemently, "But you see, Damon, that's what the modern world's like -- murders and wars and
atomic bombs, and Blake and Whitehead have got nothing to do with it. So can't you see why I'd feel
happier if you and Sarah hadn't gone into this thing quite so blindly?"
Reade asked, after a pause, "What would you suggest I do?"
"Well, if you agree with me. . . I'd suggest you try to cool Sarah's enthusiasm a little. You can do
it and I can't. I don't mean disappoint her or go back on your word, but you could make her see that it
might be best to leave the whole thing in abeyance for now. . . just treat it as something you can discuss
again in a year's time, when she's out of school. Let her see you don't take it too seriously. Oh, of course
I know you do, since you've given your word. But wouldn't it be better -- for her sake -- to pretend you
don't? You're a lot older than she is and you've got to do the thinking for both of you."
They sat silently for a few moments, both looking down at the tablecloth.
Then Reade said, "Very well. But let me try and put my point of view. I don't mean about Sarah.
Let's take it for granted that I'd like to marry her. But about your other points. You've a perfect right to
call me as impractical as a dormouse, and to feel I'm out of touch with life. But this is the point where we
simply can't see eye to eye. We've nothing whatever in common. Don't you see. . . it's not an accident
that's drawn me from Blake to Whitehead, it's a certain line of thought which is fundamental to my whole
approach. You see, there's something about them both. . . They trusted the universe. You say I don't
know what the modern world's like, but that's obviously untrue. Anyone who's spent a week in London
knows just what it's like. . . if you mean neurosis and boredom and the rest of it. And I do read a modern
novel occasionally, in spite of what you say. I've read Joyce and Sartre and Beckett and the rest, and
every atom in me rejects what they say. They strike me as liars and fools. I don't think they're dishonest
so much as hopelessly tired and defeated."
Lewis had lit his pipe. He did it as if Reade were speaking to someone else. Now he said, smiling
faintly, "I don't think we're discussing modern literature."
Reade had an impulse to call the debater's trick, but he repressed it. Instead he said quietly,
"We're discussing modern life, and you brought up the subject. And I'm trying to explain why I don't
think that murders and wars prove your point. I'm writing about Whitehead because his fundamental
intuition of the universe is the same as my own. I believe like Whitehead that the universe is a single
organism that somehow takes account of us. I don't believe that modern man is a stranded fragment of
life in an empty universe. I've an instinct that tells me that there's a purpose, and that I can understand that
purpose more deeply by trusting my instinct. I can't believe the world is meaningless. I don't expect life to
explode in my face at any moment. When I walk back to my cottage, I don't feel like a meaningless
fragment of life walking over a lot of dead hills. I feel a part of the landscape, as if it's somehow aware of
me, and friendly."
Lewis said, growling, "You're welcome to feel what you like."
"You mean it's romanticism and nothing else?"
Lewis said reasonably, "I mean it doesn't make any real difference whether you're right or wrong.
We're discussing Sarah."
"I know. I'm discussing her too. You say I agreed to marry her because I was too good-natured
to refuse, and too stupid to see the consequences of accepting. It's not true. I agreed because I knew
instinctively it would be all right."
Lewis said, smiling, "Well, Sarah had an Irish grandmother. I suppose the two of you ought to
produce some psychic children."
Reade felt this was a deliberate attempt at a red herring, but he took it up reasonably. "It's not
really psychic. My psychic powers are rather undeveloped. It's a matter of an instinct about life."
Lewis said, "Well, tell me, would your instinct. . . would it help you to solve this murder, for
example? And if not, what's it worth in practical terms?"
Reade shrugged. "I don't suppose it would. I'm not interested in murders. I think the police are