yakov_a_jerkov: (Default)
Я обычно на Новый Год цитировал что-то из Сабато или Боланьо, а в этом году что-то ничего не запостил. Исправляю это упущение.

Арбат в очередном разговоре со мной в очередной раз предложил мне ответить на список вопросов, а когда я, как обычно, отказался, сказал:
Для моих риторических целей вполне достаточно, когда Вы уходите от ответа на мои вопросы.
И вот что я вспомнил из "2666" Боланьо как раз об этом стиле общения:
Sometimes he talked, not caring who might be listening, about the healing properties of masturbation (he cited Kant as an example), to be practiced from the earliest years to the most advanced age, which mostly tended to provoke laughter in the girls from the Town of Chattering Girls who happened to hear him, and which exceedingly bored and disgusted his acquaintances in Berlin, who were already overfamiliar with this theory and who thought that Vogel, in explaining it with such stubborn zeal, was really masturbating in front of them or using them as masturbation aids.
That is exactly what Arbat is doing!

P.S. Вот Боланьо был парень-молодец, о чем угодно у него можно цитату найти.
yakov_a_jerkov: (Default)
[livejournal.com profile] avva ссылается на статью в NYT, "The Blasphemy We Need".

В статье упоминается Салман Рушди. Там говорится, что неправильно критиковать Рушди, когда ему угрожает смертельная опасность. С этим я согласен, следующий же тезис кажется мне весьма сомнительным:
Если достаточно большая группа людей готова убить тебя за то, что ты нечто сказал, тогда это "нечто" почти наверняка следует говорить и повторять еще больше и чаще, потому что иначе у этой группы будет право вето над свободным обществом, а когда такое происходит, то это уже не свободное общество. Еще раз подчеркну
Но это мы все вчера уже обсудили. Я просто по поводу Рушди процитирую еще раз отрывок из "2666" Боланьо. Там как раз об этом всем -- интеграция мусульман в западное общество, Салман Рушди, свободный секс и важная роль насилия.
Which led Espinoza to remark that he'd be damned if the cabbie hadn't just quoted Borges, who once said London was like a labyrinth- unintentionally, of course. To which Norton replied that Dickens and Stevenson had used the same trope long before Borges in their descriptions of London. This seemed to set the driver off, for he burst out that as a Pakistani he might not know this Borges, and he might not have read the famous Dickens and Stevenson either, and he might not even know London and its streets as well as he should, that's why he'd said they were like a labyrinth, but he knew very well what decency and dignity were, and by what he had heard, the woman here present, in other words Norton, was lacking in decency and dignity, and in his country there was a word for what she was, the same word they had for it in London as it happened, and the word was bitch or slut or pig, and the gentlemen who were present, gentlemen who, to judge by their accents, weren't English, also had a name in his country and that name was pimp or hustler or whoremonger.

This speech, it may be said without exaggeration, took the Archimboldians by surprise, and they were slow to respond. If they were on Geraldine Street when the driver let them have it, they didn't manage to speak till they came to Saint George's Road. And then all they managed to say was: stop the cab right here, we're getting out. Or rather: stop this filthy car, we're not going any farther. Which the Pakistani promptly did, punching the meter as he pulled up to the curb and announcing to his passengers what they owed him, a fait accompli or final scene or parting token that seemed more or less normal to Norton and Pelletier, no doubt still reeling from the ugly surprise, but which was absolutely the last straw for Espinoza, who stepped down and opened the driver's door and jerked the driver out, the latter not expecting anything of the sort from such a well-dressed gentleman. Much less did he expect the hail of Iberian kicks that proceeded to rain down on him, kicks delivered at first by Espinoza alone, but then by Pelletier, too, when Espinoza flagged, despite Norton's shouts at them to stop, despite Norton's objecting that violence didn't solve anything, that in fact after this beating the Pakistani would hate the English even more, something that apparently mattered little to Pelletier, who wasn't English, and even less to Espinoza, both of whom nevertheless insulted the Pakistani in English as they kicked him, without caring in the least that he was down, curled into a ball on the ground, as they delivered kick after kick, shove Islam up your ass, which is where it belongs, this one is for Salman Rushdie (an author neither of them happened to think was much good but whose mention seemed pertinent), this one is for the feminists of Paris (will you fucking stop, Norton was shouting), this one is for the feminists of New York (you're going to kill him, shouted Norton), this one is for the ghost of Valerie Solanas, you son of a bitch, and on and on, until he was unconscious and bleeding from every orifice in the head, except the eyes.

When they stopped kicking him they were sunk for a few seconds in the strangest calm of their lives. It was as if they'd finally had the menage a trois they'd so often dreamed of.

Pelletier felt as if he had come. Espinoza felt the same, to a slightly different degree. Norton, who was staring at them without seeing them in the dark, seemed to have experienced multiple orgasms. A few cars were passing by on St. George's Road, but the three of them were invisible to anyone traveling in a vehicle at that hour. There wasn't a single star in the sky. And yet the night was clear: they could see everything in great detail, even the outlines of the smallest things, as if an angel had suddenly clapped night-vision goggles on their eyes. Their skin felt smooth, extremely soft to the touch, although in fact the three of them were sweating. For a moment Espinoza and Pelletier thought they'd killed the Pakistani. A similar idea seemed to be passing through Norton's mind, because she bent over the cabbie and felt for his pulse. To move, to kneel down, hurt her as if the bones of her legs were dislocated.

A group of people came from Garden Row singing a song. They were laughing. Three men and two women. Without moving, Norton, Pelletier, and Espinoza turned their heads toward them and waited. The group began to walk in their direction.

"The cab," said Pelletier, "they want the cab."
yakov_a_jerkov: (Default)
Всем всех благ.

Я из Боланьо чаще всего вспоминаю вот этот отрывок из "The Savage Detectives", точнее эту его часть:
And I said: Rafael, you bastard, you stupid prick, you son of a bitch, when your friends disappear I'll still be with you, I know it, when you're left all alone and helpless, I'm the one who'll be by your side and who'll help you. Not some old bastard festering in his memories and literary quotations. And definitely not your second-rate gurus (Arturo and Ulises? he said, they aren't my gurus, you dumb gringa, they're my friends), who the way I see it are going to vanish one of these days.
Это о том, что только самым близким тебе людям есть до тебя хоть какое-то дело, как мне кажется.

И когда в следующий (и последний) раз Рафаэль и Барбара появляются в романе все произошло именно так, как предсказывала Барбара: все друзья Рафаэля исчезли, а она still by his side, и за счет нее он и живет.

С другой стороны, она его уже убить готова, так он ей осточертел:
I was seething with rage, I really was, absolute fury, and I would happily have poisoned his goddamn scrambled eggs, but I restrained myself. I counted to ten. [...] And I would ask: what do you talk about with those kids? And he would say: I tell them stories, I teach them life lessons. Then we would be quiet with the TV on, each of us absorbed in our own scrambled eggs, our pieces of lettuce, our tomato slices, and I would think what life lessons are you talking about, you poor bastard, you poor jerk, what lessons did you ever learn, you pathetic leech, you pathetic loser, you fucking asshole, if it weren't for me you'd be sleeping under a bridge. But I didn't say anything, I just looked at him, and that was all. Although even my glances seemed to bother him. He would say: what are you looking at, white girl, what are you scheming? And then I would force a dumb smile, not answering, and start to clear the plates.
В общем, несколько mixed message получается.
yakov_a_jerkov: (Default)
Давно ничего из Боланьо не цитировал. Сейчас вспомнил по довольно неожиданному поводу.

Некто Шургин (наверное, известный, но не мне, пропагандист) приводит якобы размышления некого российского военного, участвовавшего (в составе российских войск, не "ополчения") в войне в Украине (на Донбассе) -- "ЧЕЛОВЕК С СЕВЕРА". Этот же текст перепечатал [livejournal.com profile] colonelcassad, изменив название на более поэтичное, но убрав CapsLock, -- "Северный ветер".

Что касается самого текста, то я сомневаюсь в его значимости. В прямом участии регулярных российских войск в боях на Донбассе не уверены только те, кто отказывается воспринимать реальность, тут текст не содержит никакой неизвестной информации. Что же касается оценок анонимного автора, то неизвестно действительно ли это рассуждения российского офицера, участника этой войны, или компиляция доступных автору информации и слухов.

Интерес представляют комментарии -- я почитал немного у [livejournal.com profile] colonelcassad -- все эти "нужно врать до последнего", "да не нужно уже", "не было там российских войск", "ты дурак что ли?", "скачи на майдан" и т.д. Довольно смешно.

Но меня другое рассмешило. Из текста то ли реального, то ли вымышленного российского офицера:
Артиллерия – наиболее «продвинутый» род войск в ВСУ. Всё же, как ни крути, советская артиллерийская школа была и остаётся лучшей в мире. Качество обучения артиллеристов в постсоветских училищах по-прежнему остаётся очень высоким.
Я уже цитировал этот отрывок из Боланьо. Скопирую сюда всю ту свою запись.
Очень ЖЖ-разговоры про СССР напомнило

Дочитал "Distant Star" Боланьо. Этот отрывок о Чили до Пиночета меня почему-то очень рассмешил. По-моему, абсолютно то же самое, как бесконечные разговоры на тему "Вот в СССР Х было лучшим в мире! -- Да ты чего?"
[...] and the conversation turned to his years in Chile, the country as we remembered it, and the Chilean police force, which Romero (to my astonishment) regarded as one of the finest in the world. You're a fanatic and a chauvinist, I said to him over dessert. Not at all, he replied. When I was in Criminal Investigations, there was no such thing as an unsolved murder case. And the boys who went into Investigations were well educated; they'd all finished secondary school with good marks, then they had three years in the academy with excellent teachers. I remember the criminologist Gonzalez Zavala, Doctor Gonzalez Zavala, God rest his soul, saying that the two best police forces in the world, at least as far as homicide was concerned, were the British and the Chilean. I told him not to make me laugh.
Don't make me laugh, действительно.
yakov_a_jerkov: (Default)
Начал читать "Nazi literature in the Americas" Боланьо. Вот такой отрывок. Одна женщина полюбила другую.

The meeting in Rosario was not as marvelous as Luz had hoped. Claudia clearly and frankly set out the reasons why a closer relationship between them was impossible: she was not a lesbian; there was a significant age difference (Luz being more than twenty-five years older); and, finally, their political convictions were deeply dissimilar if not diametrically opposed. “We are mortal enemies,” said Claudia sadly. This affirmation seemed to interest Luz. (Sexual preference was a triviality, she felt, in a case of real love. And age was an illusion. But she was intrigued by the idea of being mortal enemies.) Why? Because I’m a Trotskyite and you’re a Fascist shit, said Claudia. Luz ignored the insult and laughed. And there’s no way around that? she asked, desperately lovesick. No, there’s not, said Claudia.
Я вот не думал об этом. Действительно ли сексуальные предпочтения -- незначительная ерунда, в случае настоящей любви? По крайней мере, какие-то сексуальные предпочтения -- наверное. А прямо сексуальная ориентация? Не определено, конечно, что такое "настоящая любовь".

Про возраст тоже непонятно. Вряд ли это прямо иллюзия.
yakov_a_jerkov: (Default)
'Pull-out method' tied to unintended pregnancies

Researchers compiling surveys from more than 2,000 women ages 15 to 24 found 31 percent had used the pull-out method, also known as withdrawal or coitus interruptus, over the last two years.

Of those women, 21 percent reported having an unintended pregnancy. In contrast, 13 percent of women who only used other forms of birth control got pregnant unintentionally.[...]

When used properly, withdrawal carries about the same risk of pregnancy as condoms and diaphragms, with failure rates of 15 to 24 percent per year. But because withdrawal requires good timing and communication between partners, some experts estimate that failure rates may be even higher, between 18 and 28 percent.[...]

According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, approximately 37 percent of U.S. births between 1982 and 2010 were unintended at the time of conception. Over three-quarters of births to women ages 15 to 20 were unintended and half of births to women ages 20 to 24 were unintended.


Напомнило мне это отрывок из "The Savage Detectives" Боланьо, который я уже как-то цитировал:

Then (but first I had pushed my pants down to my knees) I got on top of her and entered her.
"Don't come inside of me," said María.
"I'll try not to," I said.
"What do you mean you'll try, you jerk? Don't come inside!"
yakov_a_jerkov: (Default)
Продолжаю цитировать отрывки из "2666" Боланьо к записи "Про бродячих собак".

Вот предыдущие отрывки: Первый и Второй.
The next day my troop of volunteers, with the obligatory variations I had imposed for reasons of mental hygiene, returned to work. By the end of the week eight brigades of sweepers had disappeared, which made a total of eighty Greek Jews, but after the Sunday rest a new problem arose. The taxing work had begun to take its toll on the men. The volunteers from the farms, of whom there had been as many as six at a certain point, were reduced to one. The town police complained that their nerves were frayed and when I tried to urge them on I could see they really were at the breaking point. My office staff were either unwilling to continue to take an active part in the operations or they suddenly fell ill. My own health, I discovered one morning as I was shaving, hung by a thread.
yakov_a_jerkov: (Default)
Продолжаю цитировать отрывки из Боланьо к записи "Про бродячих собак".
The next morning I went in person to fetch the police chief at his house. On the sidewalk in front of my office, eight policemen gathered, joined by four of my men (one of my secretaries, my driver, and two clerks) and two farmers, volunteers who were there simply because they wanted to participate. I told them to act with dispatch and to return to my office to inform me of what had happened. The sun wasn't up yet when they left.
At five in the afternoon the police chief and my secretary returned. They looked tired. They said everything had gone according to plan. They had stopped at the old tannery and left town with two brigades of sweepers. They had walked ten miles. They had turned off the road and headed with weary steps toward the hollow. And there the deed had been done. Was there chaos? Did chaos reign? Did chaos prevail? I asked. A little, they answered sulkily, and I chose not to press them.
The next morning the same operation was repeated, with a few changes: rather than two volunteers we had five, and three policemen were replaced by three others who hadn'ttaken part in the previous day's labors. Among my men there were changes, too: I sent the other secretary and no clerks, although the driver remained part of the contingent.
Midway through the afternoon another two brigades of sweepers disappeared and that night I sent the secretary who hadn't been at the hollow and the fire chief to organize four new brigades.
yakov_a_jerkov: (Default)
К записи "Про бродячих собак". Я там сюжет Боланьо своими словами пересказал, так что я в нескольких записях (не все сразу) приведу несколько отрывков. Вот первый.
The rest of the day passed as usual, until that night I received a call from Warsaw, the Office of Jewish Affairs, an organization of whose existence I had previously been unaware. A distinctly adolescent voice asked me whether it was true that I had five hundred Greek Jews. I said yes and added that I didn't know what to do with them, because no one had advised me of their arrival.
"It seems there's been a mistake," said the voice.
"So it seems," I said, and I was silent.
The silence lasted for quite a while.
"That train should have unloaded in Auschwitz," said the adolescent's voice, "or at least I think so, I'm not quite sure. Hold, please."
For ten minutes I stood with the phone to my ear. [...] At that moment the adolescent voice asked:
"Are you still there?"
"I'm here," I said.
"Look, with the situation as it is we have no transportation available to collect the Jews. Administratively they belong to Upper Silesia. I've talked to my superiors and we're in agreement that the easiest and best thing would be for you to dispose of them."
I didn't answer.
"Do you understand?" asked the voice from Warsaw.
"Yes, I understand," I said.
"Then we have a solution, don't we?"
"That's right," I said. "But I'd like to receive the order in writing," I added. I heard a pealing laugh at the other end of the line. It could be my son's laugh, I thought, a laugh that conjured up country afternoons, blue rivers full of trout, and the scent of fistfuls of flowers and grasses.
"Don't be naive," said the voice without a hint of arrogance, "these orders are never issued in writing."
That night I couldn't sleep.
yakov_a_jerkov: (Default)
У меня с собаками отношения не очень, я об этом пару раз писал. И когда я вижу фотографии -- бродячие собаки лежат в песочнице на детской площадке и т.п., у меня возникают мысли о том, что нужно бы городским властям что-то сделать, чтобы эти собаки исчезли, а что именно -- не особенно важно, лишь бы результат был.

У Боланьо в "2666" есть эпизод что ли, не знаю как назвать. Сейчас перескажу своими словами.

Конец второй мировой войны. Некий немец, мэр (или как это в тот момент называлось) небольшого польского города. В его город по ошибке приходит поезд с евреями, которые должны были попасть в Освенцим. И он не знает, что с этими евреями делать. Отправить их куда-то дальше он не может. Кормить их ему нечем. Работы у него для них нет, жилья тоже нет. Евреи от голода и холода начинают умирать. Он звонит в центр -- ему неофициально предлагают евреев убить, но официальный приказ отдать отказываются.

В конце концов, он, все же, решает их убить. (Правда, оказывается, что силами любителей убить несколько сотен человек (кажется несколько сотен) совсем не просто.)

Я это прочитал, а потом, через какое-то время, мне стало понятно, что эта история... Что с бродячими собаками примерно то же самое ведь. Давно написать об этом собирался.
yakov_a_jerkov: (Default)
Во время недавних дискуссий об оружии я вспомнил об отрывке из "2666" Боланьо. Последняя фраза, по-моему, очень смешная.
Amalfitano glanced toward the bar. Three waiters were whispering, casting sidelong glances at their table. I think we should leave, said Amalfitano. Marco Antonio Guerra noticed the waiters and made an obscene gesture, then he laughed. Amalfitano took him by the arm and dragged him out into the parking lot. By now it was night and a huge glowing sign featuring a long-legged mosquito shone brightly on a metal scaffolding. I think these people have some problem with you, said Amalfitano. Don't worry, Professor, said Marco Antonio Guerra, I'm armed.
Интересно, когда "2666" на русский переведут?
yakov_a_jerkov: (Default)
Давно "2666" Боланьо не цитировал. Вот на днях чего-то вспомнил.
He was easily smitten and awkward, with the result that he didn't have a girl. Sometimes he talked, not caring who might be listening, about the healing properties of masturbation (he cited Kant as an example), to be practiced from the earliest years to the most advanced age, which mostly tended to provoke laughter in the girls from the Town of Chattering Girls who happened to hear him, and which exceedingly bored and disgusted his acquaintances in Berlin, who were already overfamiliar with this theory and who thought that Vogel, in explaining it with such stubborn zeal, was really masturbating in front of them or using them as masturbation aids.
yakov_a_jerkov: (Default)
Я вот прочитал заметку о том, что в славном штате Техас казнили очередного осужденного на смертную казнь. Три раза откладывали, но на четвертый раз, все же, казнили.

Так вот что в этой заметке меня поразило, не знал раньше о таких правилах.
Urnosky, his wife, and Pal's uncle and aunt stood a few feet away from Foster and watched the execution through a window.
Это родственники двух жертв смотрели через специальное окно на то, как осужденный за эти убийства умирал.

Что я хочу сказать по этому поводу. По-моему, делать из смертной казни представление для родственников жертв -- это тот самый выбор в пользу первобытно-племенных ценностей, о котором говорил [livejournal.com profile] vba_, только [livejournal.com profile] vba_ говорил об этом по поводу Азербайджана и Сафарова.

Кстати, тем, кто считает, что русскоязычные Интернет-комментаторы отличаются какой-то особой дикостью, рекомендую почитать комментарии американцев к заметке по ссылке.

И вот еще что. Удивительно, что у Боланьо в "2666" описана та же примерно дикость, только в Мексике. И отличие в том, что убивают осужденных за убийства другие осужденные. И родственники непосредственно во время казни не присутствуют. Но охранники делают для них (родственников) фотографии, чтобы те позже могли насладиться. Я это уже цитировал ранее. Поразительно, что тут и окошко упоминается.
When his lawyer came to see him at noon, Haas told her he had witnessed the killing of the Caciques. The whole cell block was there, said Haas. The guards watched from a kind of skylight on the floor above. They took pictures. No one did anything. The Caciques got reamed. Their assholes were shredded. Are those bad words? asked Haas. Chimal, the leader, was screaming for them to kill him. They splashed him with water five times to wake him up. The executioners stood aside so the guards could take good pictures. They stood aside and moved the spectators aside. I wasn't in the first row. I could see it all because I'm tall. Strange: it didn't turn my stomach. Strange, very strange: I watched all the way to the end. The executioner seemed happy. His name is Ayala. He was helped by another man, an ugly guy who's in my cell, named Farfan. Farfan's lover, Gomez, also took part. I don't know who killed the Caciques they found later in the bathroom, but the first four were killed by Ayala, Farfan, and Gomez, with the help of another six men who held them down. Maybe there were more. Scratch six, make it twelve. And all of us from the cell block who watched the action and didn't do anything. And you think, asked the lawyer, that they don't know all this on the outside? Oh, Klaus, you're so naïve. No, just stupid, said Haas. But if they know, why don't they say anything? Because people are discreet, Klaus, said the lawyer. The reporters too? asked Haas. They're the most discreet of all, said the lawyer. For them, discretion equals money. Discretion is money? asked Haas. Now you're getting it, said the lawyer. Do you know why they killed the Caciques? I don't know, said Haas, all I know is it wasn't a walk in the park. The lawyer laughed. For money, she said. Those animals killed the daughter of a man with money. Everything else is beside the point. Just babble, said the lawyer.
yakov_a_jerkov: (Default)
Вспомнил сегодня. Из "The Savage Detectives" Боланьо. Довольно длинно, поэтому помещаю под катом.

Read more )
yakov_a_jerkov: (Default)
Тоже из "Distant Star" Боланьо.
According to Bibiano, the news of Wieder's death was false, and was probably invented by Ibacache's cronies themselves, who were following their master into dementia.
То есть как люди следуют за лидером в маразм наблюдать можно.
yakov_a_jerkov: (Default)
Как я уже говорил, я дочитал "Distant Star" Боланьо. Одну цитату я тут приводил.

Книжка мне понравилась. Не так, как "2666" и "The Savage Detectives", но то шедевры, как я думаю, а "Distant Star" и "By night in Chile" -- просто очень хорошие книги.

Я про "Distant Star" несколько записей напишу, наверное. Сейчас о перформансах. В книжке рассказывается про поэта, хорошего поэта, который искал новые формы поэзии, наверное.
Things like what? Fat Marta thought for a while before answering. Well, he tells me about his new poetry, what else? You mean the poetry he's planning to write? asked Bibiano skeptically. That he's going to perform, said Marta. And you know why I'm so sure? Because of his will. She waited a moment for a question from us, then added, He has a will of iron.
То есть этот поэт был в некоторой степени что-то вроде такого паразита, как Саша Барон Коэн. Но не совсем. Он took перформансы up a notch. Часть его перформансов состояла в том, что он убивал людей, других поэтов, в частности.

А про толерантность мне такой отрывок понравился.
This was his reasoning: Wieder was a poet, I was a poet, he was not. To find a poet, he needed the help of another poet.

I told him that in my opinion Carlos Wieder was a criminal, not a poet. All right, all right, let's not be intolerant, said Romero. Maybe in Wieder's opinion, or anyone else's for that matter, you're not a poet, or you're a bad one, and he's the real thing. It all depends on the glass we see through, as Lope de Vega said, don't you think?
yakov_a_jerkov: (Default)
Дочитал "Distant Star" Боланьо. Этот отрывок о Чили до Пиночета меня почему-то очень рассмешил. По-моему, абсолютно то же самое, как бесконечные разговоры на тему "Вот в СССР Х было лучшим в мире! -- Да ты чего?"
[...] and the conversation turned to his years in Chile, the country as we remembered it, and the Chilean police force, which Romero (to my astonishment) regarded as one of the finest in the world. You're a fanatic and a chauvinist, I said to him over dessert. Not at all, he replied. When I was in Criminal Investigations, there was no such thing as an unsolved murder case. And the boys who went into Investigations were well educated; they'd all finished secondary school with good marks, then they had three years in the academy with excellent teachers. I remember the criminologist Gonzalez Zavala, Doctor Gonzalez Zavala, God rest his soul, saying that the two best police forces in the world, at least as far as homicide was concerned, were the British and the Chilean. I told him not to make me laugh.
yakov_a_jerkov: (Default)
Ройзман информирует о результатах обыска:
Похоже, обыск подходит к концу. Нашли обоссаный мартас со следами месячных. Забирают с собой. Больше ничего интересного не нашли.
Я недавно отрывок из Боланьо приводил:
Asked about the blood, Haas said it was probably from one of the women with whom he'd had relations during her menstrual period.
Вспомнил просто.
yakov_a_jerkov: (Default)
Давно ничего из Боланьо не цитировал. Сейчас читаю "By night in Chile". Вот про этот самый "офисный планктон", как его некоторые в ЖЖ называют, отрывок. Мне этот отрывок, в отличии от других, которые я цитировал, не так, чтоб уж очень нравится. Но мне кажется примечательным пафос героя, очень он на ЖЖ-шный похож, мне показалось. По-моему, в ЖЖ примерно такую запись можно было бы увидеть.
For coffee he insisted we go to the Haiti, a repulsive place that collects the scum of the city offices, the middle management, vice-this, assistant-that and deputy-the-other-thing, who consider it good form to drink standing up at the bar or in bunches scattered about the establishment's barn-like space, fronted, as I remember it, by two large glass windows, from the ceiling almost down to the floor, so that the clients standing inside, with a coffee cup in one hand and a battered ring-binder or briefcase in the other, provide a spectacle for the passers-by, who simply cannot resist looking in, albeit from the corner of an eye, at the mass of bodies crowded there in legendary discomfort.
Только, думаю, ЖЖ-писатель использовал бы предложения покороче.
yakov_a_jerkov: (Default)
Из "Literature+Illness=Illness" Боланьо. Мне вообще этот отрывок нравится, но мне также интересна выделенная фраза. Действительно, эти люди -- не гомосексуалы (и не бисексуалы)?
Fucking when you don't have the strength to fuck can be beautiful, even epic. Then it turns into a nightmare. But what can you do? That's how it is. Consider, for instance, a Mexican jail. A new prisoner arrives. Not what you'd call handsome: squat, greasy, pot-bellied, cross-eyed, malevolent and smelly into the bargain. Before long, this guy, whose shadow creeps over the prison walls or the walls of the corridors at an exasperating, slug-like pace, becomes the lover of another guy, who is just as ugly, but stronger. It's not a long, drawn-out romance, proceeding by tentative steps and hesitations. It's not a case of elective affinity, as Goethe understood it. It's love at first sight; primitive, if you like, but their objective is not so different from that of many normal couples or couples we consider to be normal. They are sweethearts. Their flirting and their swooning are like X-ray images. They fuck every night. Sometimes they hit each other. Sometimes they tell the stories of their lives, as if they were friends, but they're not really friends, they’re lovers. And on Sundays, their respective wives, who are every bit as ugly as they are, come to visit. Obviously, neither of these men is what we would normally call a homosexual. If someone called them homosexuals to their faces, they'd probably get so angry and be so offended, they'd brutally rape the offender, then kill him. That's how it is. Victor Hugo, who, according to Daudet, was capable of eating a whole orange in one mouthful -- a supreme test of good health, according to Daudet, and a sign of pig-like manners, according to my wife -- set down the following reflection in Les Miserables: sinister people, malicious people know a sinister and malicious happiness. Or that's what I seem to remember, because Les Miserables is a book I read in Mexico many years ago and left behind in Mexico when I left Mexico for good, and I'm not planning to buy it or reread it, because there's no point reading, much less rereading, books that have been made into movies, and I think Les Miserables has even been turned into a musical.
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