Gulliver in Joygorod [antikvár]

Here I sit on the porch of my house in R... . On my desk in front of me are my papers and pencil. Occasionally my wife or daughter appears in the doorway to observe me bent over my work. Seeing me writing diligently they withdraw with satisfaction. But when Pm alone, I sit back and stare off into space once more. It's hard to write. My state of mind became deeply | affected by my most recent year-long adventure at sea. | When I finally arrived home to the arms of my loved ! ones hardly a month ago, I decided never to write about j my wanderings. Partly, because even though I wasted most of my life on escapades at sea, I always had enough I time for the literature of my dearly beloved home; if my wife and loved ones hadn't neglected it, I wouldn't be persuaded to put my adventures on paper. And anyway, where would I find a publisher who is interested in somé voyage to an island that I can't even place anywhere on a map! Isn't it absurd? And what of the plot? Adventure? These things are quite suspicious. Where are the deep psychological analyses, the stylistic backbends, the enchanted word formations? On top of it all, my experiI ences were so dismal that even if I could set aside my j inhibitions concerning writing (which I must admit, is very difficult) I find it hard to deal with.my concealed . memories. Such internál conflicts cause my idleness. Completely buried in my thoughts, I didn't even notice j my wife peeping in at me cautiously. A hearty shadow (which covered my empty pages almost entirely) stirred i me from my hideous indolence, and the incriminating voice of my precious mate resounded: "I thought you were working!" That's all. But to all those who have been married and have been afflicted with such sensitivity as I, I need not explain my agitation. So without a word, I reached for my pen submissively.