Под покровом ночи. I am rooted, but I flow
He fills our plates, and as we eat, we talk about everything except for how he’s feeling. I tell him what he’s missed in U.S. Geography and talk about the places left to wander. I give him his birthday present, a first edition of The Waves I found in a little bookstore in New York. I inscribed it: You make me feel gold, flowing too. I love you. Ultraviolet Remarkey-able.
Он кладет еду на тарелки, мы ужинаем и говорим обо всем на свете, но только не о его самочувствии. Я рассказываю о том, что он пропустил на уроках географии США, о тех местах, которые остались для путешествий. Потом вручаю ему подарок на день рождения, это первое издание «Волн», которое я обнаружила в маленьком книжном магазинчике в Нью-Йорке. Я подписала его: «Ты тоже заставляешь меня чувствовать себя так, будто это я вся в золоте и теку. Я люблю тебя. Ультрафиолет Марки-Ни-Одной-Помарки».
Oh, stop it, я вся теку. Кровавыми слезами.
А вот как было у Вирджинии Вулф:
The black-and-white figures of unknown men look at me as I lean forward; as I turn aside to look at a picture, they turn too. Their hands go fluttering to their ties. They touch their waistcoats, their pocket-handkerchiefs. They are very young. They are anxious to make a good impression. I feel a thousand capacities spring up in me. I am arch, gay, languid, melancholy by turns. I am rooted, but I flow. All gold, flowing that way, I say to this one, “Come.” Rippling black, I say to that one, “No.” One breaks off from his station under the glass cabinet. He approaches. He makes towards me. This is the most exciting moment I have ever known. I flutter. I ripple. I stream like a plant in the river, flowing this way, flowing that way, but rooted, so that he may come to me. “Come,” I say, “come.” Pale, with dark hair, the one who is coming is melancholy, romantic. And I am arch and fluent and capricious; for he is melancholy, he is romantic. He is here; he stands at my side.