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картотека

13:02 | 19-11-2009 | AI, Lifeform, Literature | 1 Comment

как известно, Дмитрий Vladimirovich Набоков распродает то, что сохранилось после отца.

не то, чтобы меня это сильно волновало (теперь?), однако радует удивительная возможность посмотреть на обсуждаемые карточки в полный рост — идея со[ч|ед]инять именно так всегда казалась мне сверхудобной: воистину, “как причудливо тасуется колода”.

когда-нибудь, впрочем, мы дождемся иных высот, и подобные карты с сюжетами будут по мановению руки создавать и перетасовывать иные герои — ведь даже имена перекликаются, не правда ли?

изысканный мастер, то есть, двигался в естественном направлении. a переводное издание обещают к концу месяца.

  

One Response to “картотека”

  1. s says:
    19/11/2009 at 13:03

    …в естественном направлении:

    It is 1991. It is London. Ten thousand towers, the cyclonic hum of a trillion twisting gears, all air gone earthquake-dark in a mist of oil, in the frictioned heat of intermeshing wheels. Black seamless pavements, uncounted tributary rivulets for the frantic travels of the punched-out lace of data, the ghosts of history loosed in this hot shining necropolis. Paper-thin faces billow like sails, twisting, yawning, tumbling through the empty streets, human faces that are borrowed masks, and lenses for a peering Eye. And when a given face has served its purpose, it crumbles, frail as ash, bursting into a dry foam of data, its constituent bits and motes. But new fabrics of conjecture are knitted in the City’s shining cores, swift tireless spindles flinging off invisible loops in their millions, while in the hot unhuman dark, data melts and mingles, churned by gear-work to a skeletal bubbling pumice, dipped in a dreaming wax that forms a simulated flesh, perfect as thought — It is not London — but mirrored plazas of sheerest crystal, the avenues atomic lightning, the sky a super-cooled gas, as the Eye chases its own gaze through the labyrinth, leaping quantum gaps that are causation, contingency, chance. Electric phantoms are flung into being, examined, dissected, infinitely iterated. In this City’s center, a thing grows, an auto-catalytic tree, in almost-life, feeding through the roots of thought on the rich decay of its own shed images, and ramifying, through myriad lightning-branches, up, up, toward the hidden light of vision, Dying to be born. The light is strong, The light is clear; The Eye at last must see itself Myself . . . I see: I see, I see I
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