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10:31 | 28-05-2009 | Literature | No Comments

разнообразия литератур несколькими штрихами — искусство наброска всегда завораживало меня на уроках рисованья в школе: когда хрупкими линиями ты ломаешь пустоту в нечто, околдовывая ее то резкими стрелами перспективы, то хрупкими синусоидами движенья — раз, два, и смотришь уже не на распятый кнопками на мольберте лист, но много дальше, приоткрыв дверь: “Call me Ishmael”, — начинает Мелвилл свой американский роман, и мы уже знаем, куда нас унесет ветер.

или еще навскидку:

  • “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.”
  • “The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.”
  • “The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel.”
  • “We started dying before the snow, and like the snow, we continued to fall.”
  • “riverrun, past Eve and Adam’s, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs.”

хотя мне ближе другое (и не рождение, впрочем, но окончание):

“It’s time to start,” said Genghis Cohen, offering his arm. The men inside the auction room wore black mohair and had pale, cruel faces. They watched her come in, trying each to conceal his thoughts. Loren Passerine, on his podium, hovered like a puppet-master, his eyes bright, his smile practiced and relentless. He stared at her, smiling, as if saying, I’m surprised you actually came. Oedipa sat alone, toward the back of the room, looking at the napes of necks, trying to guess which one was her target, her enemy, perhaps her proof. An assistant closed the heavy door on the lobby windows and the sun. She heard a lock snap shut; the sound echoed a moment. Passerine spread his arms in a gesture that seemed to belong to the priesthood of some remote culture; perhaps to a descending angel. The auctioneer cleared his throat. Oedipa settled back, to await the crying of lot 49.

  

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