"Colin Wilson - The Philospher's Stone" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wilson Colin)

begin their work of breaking down the cells. I persisted: тАШBut why donтАЩt these enzymes attack the living
cell?тАЩ He smiled and shrugged. тАШMy dear boy, no one knows. But there must be an explanation. We
donтАЩt really know, for example, why the enzymes in our digestive juices donтАЩt destroy the glands that
produce them, or the inside of your stomach. Perhaps theyтАЩre somehow inactive, like a bomb without its
detonator, until theyтАЩre needed. Have a look at HaldaneтАЩs book on the subject.тАЩ
I looked at HaldaneтАЩs book, but it was too technical for me. The problem continued to nag me for
several days. Some time later, I came across this passage in T. E. LawrenceтАЩs Seven Pillars of Wisdom:
тАШDuring our revolt we often saw men push themselves or be driven to a cruel extreme of endurance, yet
never was there an intimation of physical break. Collapse arose always from moral weakness eating into
the body, which of itself, without traitors from within, had no power over the Will.тАЩ I could hardly wait to
get to Sneinton to read it to Lyell. But again, he was unexcited. тАШOf course the body has resources that
become available under crisis...тАЩ тАШBut donтАЩt you think there might be some connection here with the
business of the enzymes?тАЩ He looked baffled, and I tried to explain. тАШItтАЩs the same thing, isnтАЩt it?
Something about the will that prevents the autolytic enzymes from destroying the flesh .while itтАЩs alive.
And the same thing allowed the Arabs to push themselves to extremes of endurance. Without the will,
everything breaks down.тАЩ To my surprise, my words seemed to worry him. He shook his head violently.
тАШMy dear Howard, you really canтАЩt reason like that. ItтАЩs not scientific. How do you know Lawrence was
right? It might have been wishful thinking. As to the enzymes, thereтАЩs probably some chemical
explanation. YouтАЩre not reasoning scientifically. Can you devise an experiment to test your theory?тАЩ I had
to admit that I couldnтАЩt. This was one of those occasions when I felt disappointed in Lyell. He seemed to
take pleasure in this тАШtough mindedтАЩ attitude. I felt that basically I was right and he was wrong, but I
couldnтАЩt think of any way to convince him. So I pigeon-holed the question of the enzymes, promising
myself to return to it later. Then, in the excitement of other questions, I forgot it.


The first Lady Lyell died in 1960. She had been confined to her bed for a year before the end, so it was
not entirely unexpected. She was a strange person, curiously unemotional and detached. I had seen a
great deal of her, and grown to like her; but I never grew fond of her. In fact, I occasionally felt an odd
kind of hostility. Even when her face was expressionless, her eyes often had a faintly amused expression,
as if she found all our talk of ideas an absurd folly to which she was superior. I used to try to draw her
into conversation, to find out whether her detached amusement concealed depths of wisdom. She would
talk about her childhood, or her travels with Lyell, but she never said anything to indicate profound
intelligence. I finally came to feel that her amusement was merely feminine conceit, the device of a fool to
justify her shallowness in her own eyes. A year later, Lyell married again; his second wife vas the
daughter of the biochemist, J. M. Knowles. She was a fair-haired, healthy girl, thirty years his junior, who
loved riding, hunting and swimming. Lyell was obviously very much in love, and I was now old enough -
nineteen - to be amused by it and feel superior. The new Lady Lyell spent a great deal of time on the
farm, and insisted on his buying horses. He even agreed to go riding with her every morning. I felt -
illogically - that he was betraying science by becoming so completely involved. Her French maid, Juliette,
became interested in me, and found excuses for coming up to the laboratory or the observatory several
times a day. But I was determined to set an example of the detachment of a scientific man, and I took
pleasure in treating her with polite aloofness. I blush now to think of the priggish way I behaved; she was
a delightful girl, and I realised that I missed her after she left.
LyellтАЩs death in 1967 came as the greatest shock I had ever experienced. He had gone to China with a
group from the Anglo-Chinese Friendship Society. In a small village on the Yangtse, he developed a mild
fever that kept him in bed for a few days. He returned to Peking tired, but apparently fully recovered. A
Chinese doctor insisted that he should have an injection in case the illness returned. Some kind of mistake
was made - I have never discovered exactly what happened. Small blisters formed inside his mouth, and
then a large swelling appeared on the back of his neck. Within forty-eight hours, he was dead.
Decomposition set in so quickly that the body was flown back to England, and the interment - in the