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

"I know, I know. I know what you're going to suggest. And if I kept files of all my letters, you'd
be right. . ."
Lund's disappointment was obvious. He said, "You mean you don't keep files?"
Reade felt stupid and apologetic; he felt he had somehow to make amends to this man who had
been brought so far on a wild goose chase. He walked across the room, saying nervously,
"Unfortunately, no. At least, not all of them. But you see, I'm lazy. I correspond periodically with a lot of
other Blake scholars -- Northrop Frye, Foster Damon, Kathleen Raine -- and of course I keep their
letters. But as Dr. Fairclough rightly surmised, I also get letters from cranks. You see, Blake is like the
Bible -- it's a happy hunting ground for all kinds of maniacs and fanatics. It's almost as popular as the
Book of Revelations with the end-of-the-worlders."
Lund said gloomily, "That's why we thought you could help."
"Quite. But what would be the point in keeping these letters, or replying to them? I simply throw
them onto the fire."
 "Hmm. You don't have any of them?"
"I don't think so. At least I suppose I may have one or two that struck me as interesting or
amusing. I really don't know."
Lund said with scarcely any hope, "Could you check?"
"By all means. I'll check now. Let me just take that stew off before it burns. Would you like to
join me in some, by the way?"
Lund did not reply, and Reade became aware of the depths of his depression. As he used a
wooden pole to lift the stewpot off the fire, he was thinking: It's a pity, but I'm not to blame. After all, he
was taking an absurdly long shot. That I file all my crank letters. That among them, there is one from a
homicidal maniac. . . He placed the pot on an asbestos mat beside the fire. He said, "I shan't be a
moment."
"Would you mind if I came too?"
"Not at all. After you."
After the downstairs room, the upper part of the house felt damp and cold. The stairway was
completely black. Reade pressed the catch of his study door, and Lund went in first. This was the largest
room in the house, and it had an impressive view over Wastwater toward Greendale and the Copeland
Forest. At the moment the lake was almost invisible in the rain, and the harshness and bareness of the
hills were accentuated. The room had the faintly acrid and charred smell of a paraffin fire that has been
allowed to burn itself out.
The light was poor. Reade lit a tall Aladdin lamp on a chest of drawers, and then opened the top
drawer. As Lund waited behind his shoulder, he said apologetically, "I'm afraid it might be a long search.
You see, I don't have a secretary and I don't bother much with my correspondence. Now my Blake files
-- they're over there in that cabinet -- are in much better order. I'm doing a Blake concordance, you see,
and a line-by-line commentary -- the most thorough commentary that has ever been done."
He was talking to cover his embarrassment at the chaos of letters in the drawer. They were piled
on top of one another with no more order than the litter in a paper chase. It seemed hopeless to try to
find anything in the confusion.
Lund asked accusingly, "Is that the lot?"
"Er. . . no. There are others. . ." He gestured vaguely at the other drawers.
Lund said glumly, "Oh gawd."
"It's. . . er. . . rather difficult when you have a natural dislike of correspondence, as I do."
Lund said, pointing, "Isn't that one unopened?"
"Is it? Yes, perhaps it is. You see, I often feel I just can't be bothered. . . particularly when
they're obviously letters from strangers."
He was surprised that Lund was looking happier.
"Would you mind if I opened it?"
"Not at all. Do."