Дейвид Зиндел

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Дейвид Зиндел

Postby Пазителят » Sat Jan 19, 2008 4:00 pm

Рецепта за приготвяне на k.:

Смесете произволно взети части
от "Приказка без край",
от Пратчет и от Зелазни,
от Avantasia едно и две,
от Бийгъловия "Последен еднорог",
...
(и още цял куп недомлъвни съдържания)
...
(да не забравите да сложите и k.)
...
с прашец от "Питър Пан"
и с много (Много!) Зиндел поръсете.

Да се поглъща още жарещ!


Трудно ми е да говоря за Зиндел - не защото нямам какво да кажа, а защото никога не знам откъде да почна (и отчасти защото рядко попадам на достатъчно търпеливи слушатели, които да не възроптаят срещу меандрите и скоковете на словоизлиянието ми).

Тоя път ще почна с един концентрат от зелената тетрадка. Поводът е "Реквием за Хомо Сапиенс", трилогията, чийто първи том "Бард" публикуваха през 98-а като "Падналите богове". (Нашият преводачески екип предпочита "Пречупеният бог"... но за това по-после.) (Разбрахте ли сега защо е нужен наистина търпелив читател/слушател?) (Леле, почна се... =)

Та, що съм почувствал по повод на "Реквиема":
[+1077]
...енциклопедия на познанието и мисълта, наръчник за възможностите на човека, носител на изцеление, вдъхновение и въображение (и усещане за чудо - по-разтърсващо от всичко досега за безбрежие и безграничност, за себенадмогване и себеоткриване), на истина, доброта и красота, световъзприятие, което прегръщам с ума, сърцето и духа си...

Другото ще са цитати (от превода на "Бард" - може и по-добре, и ще го направим по-добре по-нататък), но преди да ви хвърля в тях, нека да протегна ръка към всички ви:

Заели сме се да превеждаме целия "Реквием" на български. Работните заглавия на трите тома са "Пречупеният бог", "Дивото" и "Война в Рая" (в оригинал The Broken God, The Wild, War in Heaven). "Ние" сме група Зинделоразгоряни :), що искаме превода да бъде достоен за оригинала (а Зиндел на моменти пише екстатично - вижте интервюто по-долу). Затова и не се задоволяваме с един преводач/един вариант, а ще се опитаме да изберем най-сполучливо пресъздаденото. В тая насока - ако някой иска да се включи, добре сте ни дошли. Веднага ще ви пратя сканираните до момента страници от оригиналите, заедно с glossary-то, което сме направили, за да набелязваме удачни хрумвания и да стандартизираме превода на имената в книгата. Принципът на работа е следният: хващате който пасаж искате, и работите върху нея. Когато решите, че сте готови, пращате преведеното на kalin-точка-nenov =@= gmail.com. Има и друг вариант: пращаме ви чернови на преводи с набелязани за редакция пасажи, вие ги променяте по своя преценка и ни ги връщате обратно.

Материалната част: при такъв колективен труд, сложна работа, а? Понеже правим превода на доброволни начала, с твърдата убеденост, че издател ще се намери (ако никой от фантастичните ни издатели не се навие, аз лично ще уредя издаването), пари за момента няма и не се знае кога ще има. (Къш, сребролюбци! =) Ако парите наистина ви вълнуват (т.е. ще ви позволят да работите по-спокойно върху превода или върху други важни задачи), пишете ми - а още по-добре, срещнете ме, и ще се разберем. (При все цялата ми ярост понякога, съм доста разбран и разбираем в ежедневното. =)

Ето го и интервюто:

"Бури от числа, бокали от светлина"

...а цитатите почват след малко.

Архив от предишната Фантазия.
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Зиндел - "Дивото"

Postby Пазителят » Sat Jan 19, 2008 4:03 pm

Архив от предишната Фантазия.

Подробни инструкции за записване в Yahoo групата:

1. Отиваш на http://groups.yahoo.com/group/zindell-divoto

2. Горе вдясно има линк "Join This Group" - натискаш.

3. Ако имаш Yahoo имейл адрес, логваш се - мини на 7.

Ако нямаш, кликни върху "Sign up".

4. Задължителните полета за попълване са отбелязани с *. Отгоре надолу:
Малко име
Фамилия
Preferred content - остави го както си е
Пол
псевдоним/ник в Yahoo (състои се от a-z, 0-9 или _)
парола (поне 6 знака)
парола отново
остави отметката за създаване на Yahoo поща

въпрос в случай че си забравиш паролата - всички са тъпички и евентуално лесни за разгадаване от чужд човек; аз препоръчвам "Who was your childhood here?" - "Кой беше твоят герой като дете?", защото можеш да отговориш каквото си искаш
отговор (запомни как си го записал _точно_ - главни букви, преп. знаци и пр.)
Рожден ден
държава
пощ. код
алтернативен имейл - на него ще получиш съобщение от Yahoo! Member Services, с което го активираш, за да получаваш всички съобщения в групата - виж NB към 7.; добре е да е адресът, който ползваш най-често

...
Verify your registration
- въведи кода от картинката

Накрая натискаш I agree.

5. Ако ти се появи грешка "Someone has already chosen that Yahoo! ID." ("Някой вече е избрал този Yahoo ник"), избери си друг ник и натисни Submit.

Ако ти се появят други грешки - прати ми един скрийншот или питай някой наоколо.

6. Следва страница с потвърждения. Натисни бутона "Continue to Yahoo Groups".

7. Страница "join this group"

Под "Email address" избери адресa, на който ще получаваш новите съобщения. (По подразбиране ще ги получаваш на току-що създадения адрес ник@yahoo.com.)

NB! Ако твоя желан ел. адрес не присъства в списъка, трябва да кликнеш върху "Add new email address" в секция "Email address". В отворилия се прозорец въвеждаш любимия си адрес и натискаш Continue. Yahoo те кара да въведеш паролата си (досадно е, но свиквай отсега). Следващата страница ти обяснява, че за да активираш въведения адрес, трябва да отвориш съобщението от Yahoo! Member Services, което си получил на него. Отвори си пощата и в самото съобщение щракни в/у "Important! Please click here to verify this email address for your account." - връща те на страница "join this group" и вече можеш да си избираш на кой адрес да получаваш съобщ.

Най-долу: въведи текста от картинката и натисни бутона Join.

8. Натискаш "Go to zindell-divoto Home"

9. Добре дошъл у дома! :)

Започни от връзка Messages в панела отляво - изчети всичко изписано до момента и обходи дадените връзки. Празни приказки в групата няма... нали аз съм модератор. ;)

При въпроси - насреща съм.
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От Зиндел провокация

Postby Пазителят » Sat Jan 19, 2008 4:08 pm

Архив от предишната Фантазия.
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Една моя мечта

Postby Пазителят » Sat Jan 19, 2008 11:10 pm

В предната Фантазия Черно Слънце написа:

От години мечтая за миг да се разходя " ОТВЪТРЕ "из света на Д. Зиндел. Мечтаех да го посетя по начина, по който някой художник иска да живее на брега на р. Сена. Естествено в компанията на други художници, на други посетители.
Исках да описвам преживяванията, размислите и действията на някой поет- убиец или скромен градинар, усъвършенстващ се с тиха усмивка в икебаната и дзен- будизма. Исках около мен други зрели личности да вдъхнат живот на пилоти, готвачи или фривашки философи, на малки деца ( защо не ) или на обсебени от мания за величие последователи на божественото...
Копеех за Нивгия- това е един от най- хармоничните и вътрешно осмислени светове, които съм срещал. Този свят е реалност от мечтания- място на хора с големи сърца, разстърсващо силно чувство към заобикалящия ги свят, както и с невъобразимо по сила морално чувство... дори лошите го носят в себе си, макар и изкривено по някакъв плашеш и привличащ начин.

Обаче никой не може да празнува рожден ден самичък...

С годините попадах на сайтове, в които се играят фрийстайл ролеви игри. Покварата на мисловните стереотипи обаче е неизличима на подобни места- казвам го с болка, защото виждаш как една прекрасна идея се свежда до литературен вариант на джиткане в онлайн игра от типа на Оувър Куест. Срещаш хора, които прекалено дълго са използвали зарчета, картонени фигурки и йерархично мислене, тип " моето е мое ".
Нищо добро не може да излезе, когато имаш " заплюване " на герои, сили и събития , когато екстатичността в даден образ се оценя като пауърстване, а взаимосвързаността като обсебване на целия, общия свят.

От време на време предлагах на някоя водеща личност по онези места да направим игрова линия по света на Зиндел. Получавах неизменен отказ. Никой " авторитет " не пожела да си заложи шифгретора за подобно начинание. Скоро разбрах, че са прави. Просто понатрупах повече впечатления осъзнах, че в тези " Места " се отбягва не само Зиндел, но и : Фр. Хърбърт, Урсула ле Гуин, Рей Бредбъри, братя Стругацки, А. Азимов , Р. Силвъбърг , Дж. Мартин, Д. Линдзи .... По Толкиновия свят в едното " място" са правени поне три опита да бъде " подкаран " - безуспешно! Явно и той минава някакъв критичен праг на философска и етична сложност.

Бързам да уточня- по отделно всеки от хората в онези сайтове е чудесен и мил. Средното интелектуално ниво е над моето лично - признавам го веднага.
Но господстващия дух на общността обезсмисля най- доброто в първичната идея. В замисъла да се разходиш отвътре в един свят. Например там общоприетият вкус не одобрява да описваш менталните преживявания на един зеалот ( протос) по време на медитация- имаш право само да го местиш насам натам като кукла. Нямаш право да описваш семейство убийци, които нежно се държат заръка и си говорят как са децата, докато чакат слугите да почистят остатъците от "поръчката". Нямаш право да изграждаш образ на малко дете....

Е... това е.... изплаках си болката, казах какво ми тежи и за какво мечтая. Силно се надявам, че ще получа няколоко душевни лейопластчета, плюс отклик на Мечтата си да " живея " в Нивгия.

Архив от предната Фантазия.
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Re: Зиндел

Postby Кал » Fri Jan 22, 2010 12:09 am

В един друг форум почнахме да си говорим за българските класици и законите за авторско право, а вижте докъде я докарахме...

kalein wrote:
exPesho wrote: ...До момента в който хората ще престанат да си разменят вещи за да живеят, а ще си разменят свободно идеи за да се наслаждават.

Интересно е, че в света на Шестата мисловност, който описва Зиндел в "Реквием за Хомо сапиенс" (ние сегашните сме Четвъртата мисловност), отношенията са точно такива. Елементарните нужди на АБСОЛЮТНО всички хора (поне в града Нивгия, където е съсредоточено действието) са задоволени и те разполагат със свободата да ползват времето си за каквото искат _наистина_. Някои се забавляват, търгувайки (или търгуват напълно сериозно), други работят висококвалифициран труд (например в Академиите), за да удовлетворят интелектуалния си порив (или за да изкарат пари за жилище, което е СВРЪХ елементарните човешки нужди), трети се борят за умовете на масите, предлагайки им своите философски визии, коя от коя по-дръзки и смайващи, стигащи чак до религии, ако съберат критична маса...

(Икономисти, естествено, няма. :D Затова пък има отделно пилоти-математици, отделно кантори - с ударение на първата сричка, кАнтори... А на тия, дето си чешат езиците най-професионално, им се вика сказатели/fabulists.)
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Re: Зиндел - "Дивото"

Postby Кал » Wed Aug 31, 2011 5:50 pm

Ето в тази стая, сестриче-сан, може да споделяш болки и радости от сблъсъка с Данло уи Соли Рингес.

Аз много ще се радвам да си го припомня през твоя поглед.
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Re: Зиндел - "Дивото"

Postby Nameless » Sun Sep 04, 2011 5:24 pm

Ммм... Още не съм много напреднала, защото историята ми започна бавно, но вече всичко е наред откъм темпо. :)

"Шайда" и "хала" са чудесни понятия, които смятам, че разбирам прекрасно. Даже имам намерение да си ги използвам. Иначе сега тъкмо Данло разбра за произхода си. Мисля, че разбирам Данло Дивия. Първоначално не бе така, но сега сякаш... Хм. Първоначално смятах и че книгата няма да ми се хареса, но сега сякаш... Откривам много истини, които са ми нужни. Едно от нещата, които ми харесва най-много, е идеята на мокша, че не бива да има дума за "аз". Когато ти търсиш себе си, кой търси теб... Звучи ми като да се загубиш, търсейки се, а мен тази идея винаги ме е привличала. И толкова засега, като впечатления. :)

Edit: Впрочем, това не е ли най-шайда общуване?
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Re: Зиндел - "Дивото"

Postby Nameless » Thu Sep 08, 2011 12:56 pm

Хъм... Спирам да чета малко (и да подсмърчам), за да вържа няколко изречения смислен текст. Не знам какво ще остави у мен общуването с Данло уи Соли Рингес, може и нищо да не остави, наистина не знам. Но общуването с Хануман ли Тош определено вече ме е белязало здраво... Особено това последното, че Вселената е зададена от вероятно пиян и жесток Бог, който иска да знае отговора на въпроса "колко" - колко може да понесе човек... Господи... Това беше толкова тежко, толкова дълбоко раняващо, толкова... истинно...

Edit: "... Не, не, не. Вселената е била програмирана да стигне до отговора на някакъв велик въпрос. Програмистът трябва да е получил отговора. Какъв въпрос, питаш се ти, Това е тъп въпрос, наистина, жесток въпрос, зададен по-скоро от математик или търговец: колко? Това е единственият въпрос, който задава вселената, и с всеки следващ път, когато дете умре от радиационни изгаряния или мъж остарее толкова, че забрави името и лицето на жена си, вселената все повече се приближава до отговора. Колко, Данло? Колко страдание и грозота може да понесе човек преди да полудее?..." ‎"...Колко безумие може да понесе цивилизацията преди да започне да взривява звездите? Бог иска да знае. Не се заблуждавай, Бог е абсолютно жесток и тази вселена, която е създал, е ад. Бог иска да знае колко време можем да понасяме този ад, защото адският огън, който поглъща самия него, е безкраен, непоносим и никога не угасва. Бог измъчва творенията на собствената си ръка с надеждата, че ще се присъединим към него в страданието и така ще облекчим самотата и болката му..."
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Re: Зиндел - "Дивото"

Postby Roheryn » Thu Sep 08, 2011 2:05 pm

Лунаман не Мож да си нарами гледната точка и да го вее, ще ме прощавате :Р

Сериозно, Еви, ще ме накараш да я прочета пак и наново.. ъъъ... на чисто, така да се каже. Да видя мога ли да видя как може някой да види себе си така.
(Ех, да можех и непреведените да прочета ... Освен да зема да опитам.)
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Re: Зиндел - "Дивото"

Postby Кал » Thu Sep 08, 2011 3:06 pm

Обичам и Еви-чан. Че ми припомня.

Аз имах един приятел, малкоподобен на Хануман. Веднъж ме бяха изтъпанили пред целия клас, в час по английски, да си упражняваме епитетите, описващи човешки качества. Положителните и отрицателните. И стигнахме до aggressive. И моят почти-Хануман приятел заяви, че аз съм такъв, агресивен. А всички други бяха безкрайно учудени. Всички... без мене.

Защото, една лятна ваканция по-рано, моят приятел ме беше докарал до такава ярост, та да се бием до кръв. С възглавници. До кръв с възглавници, точно така.

(До неговата кръв. *подсмихвам се нещо си там*)

Много е страшно да се сблъскаш с истински „черен идеолог“, Слънчице. С твоето „аз – анти-аз“. И много... израстващо. Ако успеете да не се изколите междувременно. Даже с възглавници. :lol:

Най-чудното е, че все още сме приятели с този човек. Но той вече не е онзи.

... А аз?

И – леле какво нещо е светът ни само – ви благодаря, че съживявате темата. Аз, докато пътувах насам, разбрах какъв ще е вторият ми подарък за РД-то утре.

Но това ще го видим утре. ;)

~

Рохче :)

Имам ги на хартия, нали знаеш? И въобще не болят. Наистина.
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Re: Зиндел - "Дивото"

Postby Nameless » Thu Sep 08, 2011 5:21 pm

Много е страшно да се сблъскаш с истински „черен идеолог“, Слънчице. С твоето „аз – анти-аз“. И много... израстващо. Ако успеете да не се изколите междувременно. Даже с възглавници.


Имам доста анти-аз-ове за приятели. Иначе не е интересно. Чак напълно анти-аз-ове... Не са. Някои ме плашат с различните си морални виждания, други пък са твърде добри в някои истински дисциплини в живота (смисъл... някак все знаят какво да правят), трети пък са твърде чувствителни, четвърти - твърде бавно загряващи... Абе бая различни люде познавам. Но... Ако има един истински анти-аз, който да ми е приятел... Признавам, има. Не е баш Хануман ли Тош, но може да е достоен кандидат в женски род. Нека я наричаме Богомолката, аз без това се опитвам да я убедя, че е богомолка. Не само защото от нея струи една анти енергия спрямо съществата от мъжки пол - знаете, женските богомолки отхапват главите на мъжките, муахаха. Но както и да е. Така започнах да й казвам, след като на една практика се опитах да я нагъделичкам, а тя така здраво ми стисна ръката... Но защо е анти-аз. Защото съм била нея, затова. Тя е супер себевглъбена, отделяща наистина твъъърде много време за учене, просто безумно много, убийствено сериозна и все по правилата, позволяваща само на тесен кръг хора да общуват с нея, като на повечето не позволяват да се докосват до нея. Аз принципно се превърнах в гушлив човек, но не смея да се доближа, вземе ме ухапе... Не, точно такава е аурата й, супер анти човешка. Тя твърдеше, че не е плакала от години, а се разплака, задето имаше пет плюс, а не шест на едно изпитване. Твърдеше, че не се страхува от нещата от живота, ама умира от страх от напълно безобидния учител по ИТ. Прави се, че не разбира хората, но всъщност мене ме надушва супер ясно и по-напред от хората, дето са ми доста по-близки. Напълно ясна ми е, макар че не знам почти нищо конкретно за нея, я познавам перфеткно. И чупя тази нейна студеност с хумор, с безобразен сарказъм и убийствена, цинична ирония. И тя се прави, че не й харесва, вика ми "е, стига де", а се хилоти. Студената кралица на вкоравените сърца ми се хили на глупостите и за сметка на еди-кого-си, когото подигравам в случая. И ми действа добре, че го правя и че понякога я отпускам, мдам. Тя е умно дяце, но начинът, по който знае нещата, е противоположен на моя. Тя ги учи така, както са. Аз импровизирам, винаги. Тя учи постоянно. Аз уча колкото се може по-малко. И някак резултатите ни са пооочти едни и същи. Мисля, че тя дълбоко в себе си ме обича по нейния си начин да обича. Както и аз я обичам, макар че понякога тази нейна скованост ме вбесява и вади извън кожата ми. Знам и че дълбоко в себе си някаква част от нея вероятно ме мрази, задето (това не е самовлюбеност, а факт) тя се мъчи толкова много за толкова важното учене, а на мен просто ми се получава, като през цялото време не спирам да говоря с един вид презрителност за учението и т.н. Мисля, че и някаква част също дълбоко в мен се плаши от нея, задето бих могла да съм като нея. Мдам... Споко да не стана Данло-Хануман модел...
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Re: Зиндел - "Дивото"

Postby Nameless » Sat Sep 10, 2011 3:44 pm

Знаех си, знаех си, че този гаден мръсник е виновен... Трижди проклет Хануман, дано нещо отвратително му се случи... Съжалявам, че го харесвах като персонаж... Малко ми остава, но някакъв горчив гняв ме е обхванал, какво съм 'лапе. Стана ми гадно просто. Не е като да харесвах тази Тамара, че аз още не я харесвам, но мъката на Данло изглежда се е пропила у мен, изглежда предизвика разни размишления и образи... Добрият автор знае как да направи така, че читателят да съпреживява. Зиндел е повече от добър автор. Напоследък все такива чета. :)

Edit: Прочетох я. Радвам се, че го направих. Не съжалявам, че не го сторих отдавна. Точно сега трябваше.
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Re: Зиндел - "Дивото"

Postby Кал » Sat Sep 10, 2011 10:34 pm

*Кал се усмихва. После си записва:*

1 брой The Wild – за Ев

(в добавка към 1 брой The Host)

... Имото-чан – а кога ще мога да те видя?
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Re: Зиндел - "Дивото"

Postby Nameless » Sat Sep 10, 2011 10:35 pm

Кал wrote:*Кал се усмихва. После си записва:*

1 брой The Wild – за Ев

(в добавка към 1 брой The Host)

... Имото-чан – а кога ще мога да те видя?


Утре...? :)

И за да не спам това - гаден, шайда свят! И гадна моя Данло-тип-природа! Йей.
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Re: Зиндел - "Дивото"

Postby Кал » Sat Sep 10, 2011 10:43 pm

Кога и къде?

(Шпам, не шпам. :P)

(Много шайдиш, за човек, тамън привършил „Счупения бог“. :PPP)

EDIT: Да бе! Вярно бе! Във Въображение...

Ех, имото. Възрастта не прощава.
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Re: Зиндел

Postby Кал » Fri Dec 02, 2011 9:08 am

Ако някой не е забелязал: цитати от Зиндел се роят в ето тази тема.

А тук има сблъсък на титани... :D
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Re: Зиндел

Postby Кал » Wed Jul 10, 2013 11:19 am

Зиндел се отразява на най-неочаквани места...

(Пък аз си отбелязвам още една ролева вселена – освен Armies of Darkness - която имам да навестявам.)
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Re: Зиндел

Postby Кал » Thu Oct 03, 2013 12:00 am

Манол Дончев за „Реквиема“:

(...) Иронично, но зад заглавието на трилогията “Реквием за Homo Sapiens” се крие повече оптимизъм за бъдещето на човечеството, отколкото зад което и да е друго литературно произведение, за което се сещам. Едновременно с това и оптимизъм за бъдещето на изкуството.

Описана е цивилизация в много далечно бъдеще, която е основана на коренно променени спрямо познатите ни технологии науки, ресурси и все пак предимно човешка. Хората си воюват, както обикновено, но причините са предимно идеологически. Нанороботчета могат да изграждат от прости елементи всякакви по-сложни неорганични молекули, та нищо не пречи да пътуваме сред звездите в кораби от цяло парче диамант. Чрез математика! Толкова е абстрактно, че е добре да оставите съзнанието си да следва течението, без да се напряга да вниква в сложните принципи. А идеологиите… Те са в основата на книгите.

Трите книги „The Broken God“, „The Wild“ и „War in Heaven“, образуващи „Реквиема“, са продължение на историята от „Neverness“, създадена по-рано от автора. Първата разказва за гениалния космически пилот и изследовател Малори Рингес, открил поне за себе си тайната на живота, но след редица трагедии и разрушителни събития. А последващата трилогия е за неговия син Данло. Самият той е случаен наследник на трагедиите, създадени или неразрешени от баща му. Роден е сред диво, примитивно племе, сред което Малори и неговият екип навремето са имали тайна мисия, провалила се и довела до смъртта на повечето от участниците. А след няколко години племето е жертва на смъртоносен вирус, вече безвреден за отворените общества, но за който самоизолиралият се народ няма имунитет. Другите племена от народа са обречени, а Данло се завръща в цивилизацията, която дотогава не познава, за да търси начин да предотврати това. Поема по стъпките на баща си, без да го осъзнава първоначално и постъпва в Академията на мистичните математици и т.н. (името е дълго и абсурдно), където учи за пилот, понеже ще се наложи да лети до отдалечени кътчета на галактиката в търсене на отговори… Естествено, нещата се усложняват, стават страшно разнообразни и интересни, а аз ще ви оставя удоволствието сами да ги разкриете.

Особеното е друго. Първо, принципите, възприети от Данло - да не наранява дори с мисъл и най-дребното живо същество. Да може да приема всичко, което му поднесе вселената. Това е герой, превъплъщение на добродетели. С невероятна воля и сила, той постоянно е изправен пред дилеми и преодолява предизвикателства. С позитивизъм и добронамереност преминава през срещите с безбройни фанатици, запазвайки себе си, поддържайки чувството за единство с космоса. Не спира да вярва в човечеството и потенциала му да достигне божествено ниво, хармония със средата, избавление от пороците. Много сериозно светът се опитва да му попречи, но дивакът в него упорито оцелява.

Това е единство на жива и нежива материя, на човек и вселена, на наука и митология… Неговите реални измерения са втората важна посока на творбата. Зиндел е представител на нов стил фантастика, ориентирана не към научна достоверност, а към философия на космоса, към теоретизиране, към абстракции и към пътешествие навътре в себе си, наред с това през вселената. Води мисълта по необятни пътища на микро и макро ниво. Спуснете се по тях и най-лошото, което може да ви се случи, е да останете с по-отворено съзнание.

Внимание! При по-продължителен контакт с която и да е от тези вселени съществува реален риск да бъдете обогатени духовно по време на иначе приятните преживявания! Да се употребяват с предписание от лекуващия психиатър.


Скрит текст: покажи
... Я! Ето къде била липсващата ми бройка от The Wild!

*хем се смея, хем цъкам с език и не вярвам – дали наистина е тя?...*

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Re: Зиндел

Postby Кал » Sat Feb 14, 2015 9:00 am

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Re: Зиндел

Postby Кал » Thu Dec 17, 2015 1:12 am

Уау... уау... уау... уау... уау... УАУ!!!

David Zindell wrote:I want to let all my people know about my new book Splendor. Part memoir, part speculation as to how things on earth got so screwed up and what we can do about it (with many riffs about writing in general and how all the above has played out in my novels), this is certainly the most personal of my books. Tim O'Brien, who did a fantastic cover for Ray Bradbury's Dandelion Wine and The Hunger Games, perfectly captures the spirit of this book.


Тъкмо тичам да си направя профил в Smashwords и да си я купя...

:mrgreen: :mrgreen: :mrgreen:

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Re: Зиндел

Postby Кал » Tue Jan 05, 2016 8:25 am

In Splendor, David Zindell wrote:“Such a splendor there is in death,” I said. “Such a grace in accepting—”
“But you’re not accepting anything! You’re throwing your goddamned life away!”
“I’m so tired.”
“So what?”
“I just want things to stop hurting so bad.”
“But pain is the awareness of life, David. You wrote that in The Broken God.”
“I wrote a lot of things.”
“Pain is the price of life. Don’t you remember how Danlo says ‘yes’ to the pain of the entire universe?”
I looked up into the deeps of the canyon, where a hawk glided through the air and perhaps scanned the snow for a squirrel or a rabbit to tear apart. I thought I knew all that I ever wanted to know about life.
“I’m not Danlo, and this nightmare I can’t wake up from is no book.”
“Who are you then—really?”
I listened to the water burbling through the iced tube of the stream and to the blood pounding in my ears. I listened to the wind.
“I’m a very tired man who just wants to go to sleep.”
“Jilly needs you.”
“Sometimes, when I drive home from Denver at night, I can hardly keep my eyes—”
“Justine needs you, too.”
“I just want to see my mother again. To tell her that I—”
“Then open your eyes now, David. Open your heart. Tell it to the earth.”
“No,” I whispered, “I just want to die. It’s a good day to die.”
I took a step closer to the Bastille’s wall. I reached out toward a lip of sandstone in order to test my fingers’ strength. The moment I touched the cold rock, it seemed as if I could feel the agony of all the climbers who had fallen to their deaths in this place. Then, like Billy Pilgrim in Slaughterhouse Five, I seemed to come unstuck in time. I began reliving the moments of my life. I was boy lying very still in my bed as I tried not to disturb the sleep of my new puppy, Bonnie Belle the Beagle, curled up beside me. I climbed the young oak tree again in Ann Arbor Woods, and again I clung to its branches as my friends chopped the tree out from under me. I came unstuck again, and I moved on to the Jersey shore in August. I body–surfed a big wave which broke over me and ground me down into the shards of shells lining the ocean’s hard–packed sand. I gasped for air, drinking in a desperate breath, then gasped again in delight as I found myself back at my little yellow hippie house making love with Melody on the night we conceived Jillian. I gasped in astonishment to see the blood–streaked Justine shooting headfirst out into the world. Then, caught between another big rock and a great abyss, I struggled to breathe as the weight of Gordon dangling below me pulled tight the rope that cut me in two. I gasped at the terrible pain of life as I hung suspended in space.
“This is the best day of my life,” Gordon said for the ten thousandth time.
Then I was a boy again, covered with splotches of itchy red skin from having brushed up against poison ivy out in the woods. My whole body seemed on fire. My mother was young again, and pretty, and she swabbed my back with cool, pink calamine lotion.
“Do you know how much it hurt,” she asked, “for me to push you out into the world? Do you know how many drugs I had to take?”
The lotion did not really help stop the hideous itching. The tenderness of my mother’s hand, however, distracted me from it and for a few moments made things okay.
“Everything hurt you,” I said to her. “That’s why you murdered yourself, isn’t it?”
My throat tightened with a hard knot of pain at the long, slow, self–murder that my mother’s life had been.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I would have done it sooner, but you were my bright, bright light.”
“I could never save you!”
“No, you couldn’t. But you can save me now by saving yourself.”
I looked into her sad, blue eyes, and then I had to shut mine against the burning pain. I couldn’t bear to watch yet again as the nuclear fireball scorched her tender pink skin into black char. I didn’t want to stand once more in the mortuary touching her cold face, which the undertaker’s art had twisted into someone I could barely recognize as my mother. Where does the light go when the light goes out?
“Daddy,” Justine said to me, “I’m going to have my poem published in Highlights.”
 
The flowers are sunny
The whole world is spinning
And we’ll make
A nice pretty pudding.

 
Then I came unstuck in time again, and we sat around the table in the 14th St. Grill, with Melody, Justine, and Jillian eating pizza while I had roast turkey with gravy. It was a cold and frozen January night outside, but inside, with the fire of the wood–burning pizza oven warming our table, with all the good smells and the soft, golden light, it was the happiest and most perfect night of my life.
“Daddy,” Justine said, looking at her sister smearing her cheeks with a chocolate sundae, “Jillian makes the funniest faces. She’s always trying to make you laugh.”
Then she told me another poem she had written:
 
We love each other
Father and mother
Sister and brother
We all love each other.

 
“But you don’t have a brother,” I said to her.
“But I have the most wonderful sister in the world!”
“She is pretty wonderful.”
“I have the most wonderful father, too.”
“Thank you,” I said, smiling, “but every daughter thinks that about her father.”
“Maybe so, but somewhere in the world, one of those daughters has to be right.”
I smiled again, and I found myself sitting in a chair in a steamy auditorium watching both my daughters doing grands jetés in yet another ballet recital. They seemed to fly through the air. I kept on watching as years leaped forward and my beautiful, good–natured, youngest daughter summoned all her warrior energy and then screamed as she jumped and kicked a board into splinters in order to get her black belt.
“Jilly needs you,” I heard Justine saying, somewhere inside me.
Once, in the wave pool at Water World, Jillian had needed me to be willing to die for her. Now she needed me to live.
“I need you, too.”
Both of them, I knew, needed me to break the long chain of despair that had cursed our family so that my daughters didn’t wind up like their grandmother.
Then I stood once more at the very bottom of the Bastille, with a cold wind whooshing down Eldorado Canyon, and I jammed my hand into a crack to keep from falling down. The hard rock cut at my knuckles. By the time I had climbed up 200 feet, I thought, both my hands would be bloody.
“Do you need me,” I said to Justine, “to be a deadbeat dad who can’t help you get through college? Who can’t even help you come up with the money to go to the dentist?”
“It’s only money,” she said.
“Do you want to watch me become bent and broken and old?”
“But I don’t care about that!”
“What do you care about?”
“You know,” she said softly. “You know.”
I pressed my forehead to the Bastille’s cold sandstone because I didn’t want anyone to see my face just then. I could not open my eyes.
“It’s a good day to live,” I heard Old Lodge Skins say.
Then I started sobbing because I didn’t want to live, not another day, not another hour—hardly even the half hour or so that it would take me to climb halfway up the Bastille. I did not want to be trapped by life. I did not want to be poor and have to eat crappy food that would destroy my health, nor grow flabby and weak because I didn’t have the energy to work out. I did not want my eyes to lose their sparkle nor suffer my teeth to rot out. I felt tired of feeling ever more tired and clouded with hopelessness. Of growing smaller and smaller, drier and drier, like a shriveling orange peel, ever more blanched of color and deadly dull. How would I go on for years, dreaming my impossible dream of someday owning a house again where my children and grandchildren could come to open their Christmas presents? What would it be like to live without a bright, shining purpose? I couldn’t bear to be so broke and busy from working two or three menial jobs that I would never have the money to travel east again to put flowers on my mother’s grave. Or never to go for walks in the mountains, or to write another poem or a book, or to make love to a woman—or to stand by the ocean in marvel of the world for somehow bringing forth the marvel of me.
“Happy birthday,” my father said to me as he gave me a silver ID bracelet graven with the words: Don’t Give Up.
I kept on sobbing and smearing tears against the sandstone, and I kept swallowing at the rock of pain in my throat. It hurt so bad that I thought I might be having a heart attack. If only things could have been so easy.
“All right,” I finally said. “All right.”
Like Galadriel in The Lord of the Rings when her time of glory in Middle Earth had ended, I would accept my diminishment. Like Kane, I would say yes to the fierce, cruel, endless struggle to live in the world, even though that meant I would never shine like one of Galadin in creating a new one.
“All right, Justine,” I said, pulling my face back from the rock. “If that is what you really want.”
I would be just myself, whoever that was. And I would stop trying to force life to be what I wanted it to be, even as I stopped forcing myself. If I could not live for splendor, at least I could let myself really love.
“All right, Jillian.”
I unclenched my fist, working my hand out of the crack. I rubbed my chest, along my breastbone. It felt like something was ripping open inside me. “All right.”
I still couldn’t stop crying. I felt glad that the day remained very cold, with no one near and only a few climbers stuck to the big wall across the canyon.
“All right, Gabriel; all right, Mary; all right, Tina; all right, Susan. All right, Michael, Ari, Brian, and Jane.” I looked down at the flowing stream. “All right, Jamie; all right, Gordon. All right, Mom.”
I pointed off toward the sky to the west. Then I drew in a deep, frigid breath and said, “All right,—God.”
I suddenly felt strange. Something began moving inside me, like water flowing into too small a space. It swelled larger and larger with an unbearable pressure. Something seemed to be happening to me, something that I could not and did want to control.
I started walking up the canyon. I wanted to walk and walk, forever, into the west, where the snow–shagged mountains rose higher and higher and grew ever more beautiful and wild. I felt something waiting for me there. The setting sun colored the sky a kind of yellow that I had never seen before. A waiting yellow, a watching yellow, close enough to warm my face with its radiance, but still almost impossibly far away. I wanted to move closer to it. I felt it calling me, pulling at my eyes, drawing me on.
I crossed a wooden bridge over the frozen creek, then started hiking up a trail through the evergreen trees. My breath came hard and steamed out into the air. My chest hurt. I kept climbing up and up.
Then I moved out of the woods onto a sparkling prominence. A big rock topped it, like a jewel on a king’s crown. Folds of earth gleamed in ripples of light and dark spreading out across the world. A long band of parallel ridgeline below me caught the sun’s glister. Off to my right, down in a draw, the darkness seemed almost black. Everywhere around me, the snow shone a dazzling white, and the green of the fir trees stood out against the clear blue sky.
“Why?” I whispered to the wind. “Tell me why?”
To my right, I could see the world turning in the quick, slipping down of the sun. To my left, toward the mouth of the canyon—toward the Bastille—I gazed at a great rise covered with trees. Moment by moment, the patch of mountain that the sun illumed grew smaller and smaller, shrinking toward the reddening ridgeline. And the sky grew bluer and bluer: an almost impossible deep, deep blue that shimmered off into infinity.
“Why does the world have to be so beautiful?” It was all so beautiful it hurt my eyes, hurt my heart. “Why, why, why?”
The hawk I had seen earlier—or perhaps his mate—still cruised on the chill wind. Birds chittered in the woods below me. I caught a flash of blue as one of them exploded out of the trees just at the edge of my range of vision. Beneath my boots, little brown deer pellets studded the snow. I looked for the tracks of other animals, for the awakening of all my senses reminded me that I had entered lion country.
In back of me, on the big boulder, a mat of greenish–gray lichen covered much of its face. I could hardly believe that. Life, growing on cold, bare rock! Clinging to it so tightly that it would have been hard to chisel it off! In looking at the lichen more closely, I noticed that one tiny patch stood out, a bright lime green. “How?” I whispered. “Why? Why are you here, on this big rock, all alone? What are you doing glistening so prettily?”
“Because I am,” the little patch of life answered back. “I am what I am.”
So was I. I knew this with a tingling certainty that surged through me, from the frozen rime on my face down through my throat and my fluttering belly to my cold, cold feet. I felt the colors of the earth warming my eyes and the heartbeat of the whole world pounding along my blood inside me. I was involved with life! Everything I had ever thought, felt, and done was bound up with the life of the world! Every moment of myself interfused with all that had ever been or would ever be. I mattered, as everything did. I couldn’t help but have a purpose. Back in the cities along the foothills I might have no place in society, but here among the hawks and the hares and the silent fir trees, I would always have a home.
“I belong here,” I whispered.
I looked out across the gleaming landscape toward the horizon. How could I call myself a loser when I had everything? I was still alive! I had lived a good life, as good as I could make it. I had loved and loved, and then loved some more, the best of women, the finest of friends, the most beautiful children in the world. How could I ever stop loving and loving and loving?
“All right,” I told myself, “it’s time.”
I felt the flutter in my belly move higher up through me like the sudden beating of birds’ wings. The pressure of it seemed to break me open. I couldn’t hold in all the joy, the wild joy, so impossibly, utterly wildly wild. I wanted to fly, as I had in my dreams, to soar above my beautiful planet. I wanted to fly and fly and fly, higher and higher, and to vanish into the sky where it opened out into an ever–deepening blue.
“All right,” I said, “all right.”
I turned toward the sun. Like a ball of incandescence, it blazed only inches above the southwestern ridgeline of a nearby mountain. It grew ever brighter and more blinding as it fell toward the earth. Who could behold such an eye–burning glory? Who could embrace this vast, eternally exploding hydrogen bomb that gave life to our world? How could anyone ever be free from its terrible, beautiful burning?
“Only,” I thought, “by becoming fire.”
The whole world, then, seemed to catch on fire: the stark mountain faces, the pointed peaks above, the icy stream far below, all on fire. The trees in the forest flared with the most vivid green that I had ever seen, while tiny tongues of flame in every color from yellow to pink leaped along the miles and miles of wind–blown snow. The rocks ran red as if pouring out their own blazing purpose; so did the deadwood on the gleaming ground, and the frozen bushes, and even the hawk still limned against the brilliant sky. Everything in the world was on fire, and would always be on fire, and life most of all. Suddenly, in all the beauty around me, I didn’t feel afraid of life any more. I didn’t feel afraid of myself or for myself.
Once—it seemed entire eons ago—out on the green, green grass of a baseball field on a summer day, time had nearly stopped and a little white sphere had hung nearly motionless in the sky. Now the whole world stopped completely. The sun blazed like an infinitely deep yellow–white sphere. I felt myself melting into its warm, sweet light. I couldn’t keep myself from melting, from letting go.
Letting go of what? Only myself. David Zindell, who had to be the great writer, the great father, the great everything and anything at all. I suddenly wanted to let go of all that, to let go of my idea about myself, my safety in myself, all my bounds. I felt like a wide–eyed boy, trusting again. I felt myself relaxing inside, releasing my grip on something that flowed and shimmered inside me, all warm and good and perfectly free.
Then the sun flared into an expanding ball of fire. The explosion I had looked for all my life finally fell upon me in a great blast of light. Or I fell into it: I could not tell the difference. My parka, pants, and other clothes burned right off me in flameless flames. So did my skin and my accumulated years. I seemed to come apart in luminous layers, like rose petals spreading out, like a fireflower opening around its brilliant center. I burned and I burned, and the more I burned, the brighter I became. The colors! Yellow and blue, orange and dazzling crimson, the infinite points of silver and violet and living gold of which I was made. The song had it right all along: I really was stardust—I really was golden.
Even more, I was starfire and glorre. I vanished into a pure and perfect splendor.
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Re: Зиндел

Postby Кал » Wed Jan 06, 2016 10:22 am

Отзив в Goodreads за Splendor:

Pre-review, 16 Dec 2015:

This is ... this is ... wow.

(Too many words trying to get across only ten fingers.)

On the one hand, I wish I'd realized Splendor was out earlier. On the other, it's coming just in time to make my holidays ... well, splendid.

Now please excuse me. I'm off to create my Smashwords account. :)))

P.S. I just noticed this is (going to be) my review No 300. All part of the grand jubilee. :)))

P.P.S. And yes, I am this happy: :)))

~ ~ ~

Interim notes:

~ How many of you have felt like this when they were nine years old?

I ... cannot remember. (I cannot really remember my nine-year-old self.) But when I read David's memories, they feel like I've lived through them myself.

Where does this connection begin? Does it end--ever?

~ This one I dedicate to my fretting lady friends. ;)

(Am I being sexist? Well, I simply don't know any guys who worry much about their fat surpluses.)

(Am I being smug? Maybe. With this swift metabolism of mine .... I don't mean to be, though. I, just like David, would merely like anyone to build their relationship with themselves on love, not loathing. "Merely," heh.)

~ ~ ~

Review proper, 4 Jan 2016:

I approached David Zindell's memoir with two conflicting feelings. One was wild joy--almost animajii: I'd finally gotten my hands on the book I'd been waiting for the past seven or eight years. The other was trepidation: Would it live up to my expectations? Do all of our heroes have feet of clay?

David Zindell is one of my heroes. Spiritual dads. Formative forces. His Danlo wi Soli Ringess, the protagonist of A Requiem for Homo Sapiens, has inspired me to be the best Kalin I could ever be--and always strive to get better. Just this morning, as I was reading Splendor and reminiscing about Danlo, I told Ilka, my partner, "There's this wonderful person on Goodreads with whom discussing books is such a joy." And she, half-teasingly, half-seriously (I can never tell when she jokes about that), told me, "So you can go and have a more fulfilling time with her than with me." To which I immediately said, "But I know it won't work. Because she couldn't finish The Broken God." And to Ilka's dismayed look (well, she has finished The Broken God), I said, "I've always felt, on a very deep level, that someone who cannot understand The Broken God and the way Danlo grows up there cannot understand me: this deepest part of myself that shines through and connects to everything else--the physical me, you, our friends, the Earth, the Universe, all of Creation."

(No, I couldn't actually tell her that last part. We were in a hurry, and I hadn't reached deep enough. But I'm saying it right now. And I can imagine her reading it in a while, and already the joy of this sharing stirs inside me, prepares to burst into yet another supernova of splendor.)

I've spoken at length about the relationship between me and Danlo (here, in Bulgarian). I can perhaps speak just as much about the parallels I drew between David's life and my growing up as an activist, both environmental and social; as a wordsmith, looking for that one image, that one phrase that will capture the glory of existence in the most moving way, and helping others discover it for themselves through writing and translation workshops; as I've pondered the Greater Meaning and our need to ponder Greater Meanings (and to capitalize them ;); as I lay under a starry sky, back in college, looking up, seeking something else, something more complete, more brilliant, more myself than I could find anywhere around me; as I later turned my eyes down to the world around, to all those people whom I have the joy of calling friends, and saw how we teach and complement one another, how we form egregores and gestalts, and break up again, to form new ones .... I compared David's and my own impressions on topics as diverse as personal epiphanies, diets and denying oneself, integration, killing nature--and ourselves, love, our pursuit of happiness in the realms of the finite and the infinite, the principle "From each according to his means; to each according to his needs"--and whether (and when) it can actually work, the need for civil involvement and self-empowerment, the disparity in our (Western) treatment of sex vs. violence, what makes a serial killer, pain vs. suffering, our visions of the future and human evolution .... I felt understood and connected.

(I also had more than a little fun: when David talked with Timothy Leary, sympathized with Lee Lozowick, and bickered with Ken Wilber. Feet of clay ain't always bad. ;)

I can go on and on and on, like the light at the end of Splendor. But there's only this much words can convey. If you who've read this far wish to know more, and getting the book doesn't fill you up, come and let's talk. I'm here, underneath this bright black sky. I'm waiting.

Or perhaps I'm coming to you, in this very moment.
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Re: Зиндел

Postby Кал » Fri Jan 15, 2016 10:27 am

Препоръчвам Splendor в Goodreads:

If the author's name isn't an incentive enough--how about my review? :D


Кал wrote:So you can hear David telling about his connection to Herman Hesse. And for an array of other reasons. ;)


... и в Ятото:

Кал wrote:Flockmates: how's your English? ;)

If you want to practice it with a book that also offers some epiphanies, both personal and universal, try David Zindell's _Splendor_:

https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/1470619910
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Re: Зиндел

Postby Кал » Fri Jan 29, 2016 9:55 am

Още препоръки в Goodreads:

Кал wrote:Не сме си говорили как си с английския – но ако не те измъчва, вярвам, че този мемоар-размисъл ще те вдъхнови. Мен – много. :)
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Re: Зиндел

Postby Кал » Tue May 03, 2016 10:33 am

Покрай „Достатъчно“ се заговорихме (запрегръщахме :D) с Vessey в Goodreads:

Vessey wrote:Прочетох есето ти! Ти си гениален. Беше толкова красиво и силно. Съжалявам ако прекалявам с комплиментите. Знам, че често, когото ласкаем много човека пред себе си, звучи някак изкуствено, но съм напълно искрена. Много ме развълнува.

"Често съм се питал защо Зиндел е решил да завърши „Реквиема“, отстъпвайки от принципите в по-ранните му части – да оправдае отнемането на чужд живот и изяждането му с идеята, че един клон от дървото на еволюцията е в правото си да засенчи друг, да го лиши от светлина и влага и дори да го накара да изсъхне, ако така самото дърво ще прорасте по-здраво."

Мисля, че трябва да прочетеш ”Престъпление и наказание”, ако не си я чел. :)

"И се надявам никой, никога вече да не ми казва „Хората са най-важни“, досущ Батман, четящ морал на Отровната Айви. Покажете го; докажете го; но не го казвайте."

Благодаря ти и за това. Винаги се вълнувам и трогвам много, когато някой говори в защита на животните. Предполага се, че са най-важни, защото са по-дълбоки, по-сложно устроени. Но ако приемем тази дълбочина като нещо даващо ни право да експлоатираме всички останали, тя губи силата си. Светецът продължава ли да е светец ако настоява за почести и награди за светостта си?

"Нормално е художествените герои да ни надминават в много отношения. Те все пак концентрират, а често и хиперболизират онова „най“, на което сме способни – и хубаво, и лошо, и невместващо се в никакви критерии и рамки. Опасенията на младия читател, за когото малко подвеждащо говорих в трето лице, по-скоро бяха, че няма да съзре около себе си, сред живите, проявите на онова желание за повече; че сред живите не просто е по-слабо, а го няма като качество въобще; че би могло да е самозаблуда и измислица."

Аз мисля за това постоянно. Тези хиперболизирани, нереално силни образи са създадени от реални хора. Ако можем да бъдем невероятни (нямам предвид супер сили, а като личности) на хартия – защото всеки герой е израз на реалния човек, който го е създал – защо не и в битието си? Защо не и в избора, който правим всеки ден? Защо главният герой в ”The Old Man and the Sea” („Старецът и морето”) е съпричастен към плячката си, а самият Хемингуей се е наслаждавал на борби с бикове? Съжалявал ли е за тях? Мислил ли е как се отразява това забавление на тях?

Мисля, че трябва да преведеш есето на английски, за да стигне до повече хора. И благодаря ти за частта, която беше извадил от книгите. Тя също ме развълнува силно. Трябва да ги прочета!


Кал wrote:За мен е безкрайна радост (и не особено изразима, поне в тоя миг, когато пръстите ми се побутват един друг над клавиатурата, а усмивката ми избутва всякаквите думи по-назад, да не се пречкат на преживяването) ръката ми – онази, дето не държи хапче :D – да стигне нечия друга. Да стигна онова пространство, в което няма мисли като „комплимент ли е това?“, а даването и получаването са най-естественият, непрестореният ни език... Благодаря ти!

(И, да... есето сигурно е гениално. Казвам го с лека завист и тъга – рядко се срещам с онзи Калин, който разказва и гори така. Рядко ми се събира толкова...)

~

От Достоевски най ме привлече „Идиот“. Препоръча ми го една посестрима, дух-от-духа-ми, с думите „Княз Мишкин е друго проявление на Данло, в друга епоха, при други обстоятелства, с друга задача“. И наистина, двамата имат точки на допиране. Но в крайна сметка около средата спрях да чета, понеже... хм... понеже темпото ми дойде твърде мудно. И аз съм чедо на епохата си. :/ Трябват ми концентрати, конски дози... (Да... рядко е достатъчно.)

„Престъпление и наказание“ също ми е на списъка... но по-назад. Някой ден, когато не препускам толкова. :)

~

Всички доводи, водещи до „хората са най-важни“, са форма на кръгова логика. Наумили сме си какво искаме да докажем – сега само трябва да подберем удачните доказателства... :/ По-лошото е, че ни не позволяват да се развиваме достатъчно: да видим връзките си с всичко друго наоколо ни; да ги заздравим. Аз доброволствам в природопазещи организации от 2001-ва... и не минава ден, без да се изумя каква феерия и фантасмагория / каква взаимосвързаност и взаимопроникнатост е светът отвъд нас. А ние – видиш ли – сме се вторачили в значимостта/самотността/недостатъчността си... *изпръхтяв*

(Впрочем: един от плодовете на тези наблюдения е антологията „Зелени разкази (ама _наистина_)“. Събирали сме текстовете в нея над пет години. Ако темата ти е близка, вярвам, ще се харесате. :)

~

Колкото повече се опитвам, толкова повече ми се струва, че можем да живеем като любимите си персонажи. Или дори още по-хубави. (Те все пак разполагат – според скоростта на четене и времето, в което си ги мислим – с най-много няколкостотин часа да растат. Ние имаме цял живот. :)

Спасителната мисъл е да помним онова наблюдение на Уитман:

Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)


Всяка жива система съдържа в себе си противоречия. Сякаш това е вътъкът на живото: способността да бъдеш А в един миг, анти-А в следващия. (Понякога – и наведнъж.)

Но аз искам все повече да си избирам кой да бъда...

~

Дали мога да преведа „Достатъчно“ на английски? То е като въпроса „Мога ли да напиша друго „Достатъчно“ пак?“.

Хммм...

~

Ако решиш да четеш Зиндел, моля: нека е в оригинал. Музиката на текста му трудно се предава в превод. Е-изданията му се намират онлайн. И аз ще помагам, ако се наложи.

Пак те прегръщам! :)

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Re: Зиндел

Postby frog » Thu Jul 21, 2016 4:02 pm

Сред приятелка на Миро се носят легендни, че нали сме щели (едно време) да издаваме Зиндел. За някакви 100 бройки ставало дума (очевидно пак едно време). Тя и 100 би купила, но ще се спре на 50, за да не е несериозно да вземе всичките.
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Re: Зиндел

Postby Кал » Sat Aug 12, 2017 8:18 am

My review of The Idiot Gods:

I have a thing for dolphins. I've had it since I read Brin's Startide Rising, or maybe even earlier, when my parents took me to the Dolphinarium in Varna. I've wondered whether dolphins may be smarter than us humans. I've known that they're kinder. I've yearned to find a way to talk with them. I've written stories where they take center stage.

And now, after The Idiot Gods, I have a thing for orcas. :)

Here come the highlights of my thing:

~ When I first mentioned this book to my friends who are Zindell aficionados, we wondered about its title (and grinned and giggled). And later, this is what I found in the introductory "Tranlators' Note":

(...) we would like to say something about two terms that Arjuna uses at various times throughout his account. The first is the name he often used to describe human beings: the idiot gods. He thought long and deep before deciding on this sobriquet. At times, he thought it much more apt to call our species the mad gods or the insane gods. However, madness can too easily be associated with anger, and although Arjuna certainly saw human beings as afflicted with wrath, as a rabid dog is with lyssavirus, he did not see this as humanity’s greatest sin. Neither did he think of our kind as purely insane. Rather, he perceived in our derangement of sense and soul a willful debilitation, as if we human beings are an entire race of sleepwalkers moving through a nightmare from which we refuse to awaken. We are, he once said, like lost children wandering through a dark landscape without markers or boundaries. He had great compassion for (and dread of) our innocence. Given the horrors that Arjuna recounts, that seems a strange word to apply to the human kind, but it motivates his choice to call us idiots. It is the holy fool kind of innocence of Prince Myshkin in Dostoevsky’s The Idiot as well as the deadly innocence of the young man Lone in Sturgeon’s The Fabulous Idiot, incorporated into the great work known as More Than Human. Of all humanity’s failings that Arjuna enumerates in such painstaking and painful detail, he counts as the very worst our refusal to embrace our best possibilities and so to live as gods.


So, we set off in a fabulous company. And some of us are rubbing their hands in anticipation (and maybe even a little bit--no, no, no, definitely not a lot--of glee. ;)

~ Heeheehee ....

Baby Porrima, the most innocent of my family, asked me, ‘Do you really think the humans could be intelligent like us?’
Before I could answer, Caph said, ‘We have watched their winged ships that fly through the sky and land upon the water. Have we any reason to suppose that the humans are more intelligent than the geese who do the same, but with much more grace?’
‘I should not put their intelligence that high,’ my sister Nashira said in her bewildered but beautiful voice. ‘We have all beheld the ugliness of the metal shells that carry the humans across the water. Even a snail, though, within its perfectly spiraled shell, makes a more esthetically pleasing protection. I should say that the humans cannot be more intelligent than a mollusk.’
Her assessment, though, proved to be at the lower end of my family’s estimation of human intelligence. Dheneb argued that humans likely surpassed turtles in their mental faculties even though it seemed doubtful that they had figured out how to live as long. Chara placed the upper limit of the humans’ percipience near that of seals, who after all knew well enough not to swim in shark–darkened waters whereas the humans did not. My grandmother futilely reminded us that intelligence could not be determined from the outside but only experienced from within. Finally, after much discussion, my family reached a consensus that humans were probably about as smart as an octopus, whose grasping tentacles the humans’ hands somewhat resembled. Their generosity in according humans this degree of sentience surprised me, for the octopi are among the cleverest of the ocean’s creatures, even if they cannot speak in the manner of a whale.


(Will this book be Zindell's answer to Daniel Quinn's Ishmael?)

~ Hearken, all ye linguists! This is how it starteth!

‘I failed,’ I said, moving even closer, ‘to speak with other humans on the northern ocean. That might have been because they truly could not learn what I tried to teach them, as might prove true with you. Or perhaps the problem lies in an insufficiency of patience on my part, or worse, a failure of my imagination. But one cannot imagine what one cannot imagine. And what seems strange to me past all understanding is how you—or, I should say, your cousins the whale hunters—could not understand the simplest of significants for the most common substance on the world that we share.’
I slapped the surface of the sea with both flipper and tail, even as I said, ‘Water!’ To emphasize the word, I took in a mouthful of water and sprayed it out so that it wetted the human lying on the boat.
‘Water! Water! Water!’
‘Oh my God, he soaked me! Looks like Bobo wants to play!’
‘Water. Water. Water.’ Now I spoke more slowly, as slow as I could, and I toned down the harmonies so that even a jellyfish might hear them. ‘Water. Water. Water. Water. Water.’
‘It’s almost like he’s trying to tell us something!’
Did her utterances signify anything? I could not tell. Even so, I continued memorizing them for later review—and I contemplated each spike and wave of each of their grunts as they made them. I noticed that whenever these humans phonated, they opened their mouths to let the sounds out, as anuses let go of waste. How bizarre! How awkward! How undignified!


Heeheehee ....

~ The Others are Us:

I thought I knew the reason, and it had to do with an essential paradox: that only through looking out at all the manifold forms and features of the world can we ever apprehend the much stranger phenomena of ourselves. Just as we can see stars only against the blackness of the nighttime sky, so we need others to show us the many ways that we shine as unique sparks of creation. The greater the contrast in this relationship, the deeper the understanding.
For instance, were not females, such as lovely Mother Agena, a part of the great unknown? No other work of nature was more like a male orca such as I, and yet so utterly different. How should I then long to find myself within the wild, wet clutch of her body and even the wilder ocean of her soul? Would it not be, I wondered, that precisely in closing the difference between us and daring to enter the most dangerous place in the universe I would discover an exalted and ecstatic Arjuna whom I might otherwise not ever know?


~ Who teaches whom?

We both looked over at Gabi, who was now leaping higher than she had ever leaped before.
‘Can you not see, Arjuna, that this is what she wants you to do?’
So saying, he swam down and then breached in a great (for a baby) leap. He hung in the air seemingly motionless at the top of his arc for a nearly endless moment of time. I noticed that he had erected his little pink penis and extruded it from his belly for the humans to see. They had never taught him this feat. The playful Baby Navi made this display only because it seemed to excite the humans almost as much as it disturbed them.
After he had splashed into the water and swum back over to me, I said to him, ‘Yes, I can certainly see that that is what Gabi wants me to do.’
‘Then why do you not do it?’
‘Because,’ I told him, ‘the more that I do not, the more that she jumps—and the higher. It is more fun, is it not, to teach the humans feats rather than to perform them?’


~ More intricacies of human (English) linguistics:

For some reason that I could not fathom, it seemed that the humans divided their most important conceptions into two classes of words, called nouns and verbs. I could not be sure of this, however, for it seemed that many words could be used both nounily and verbily. The order in which humans arranged their words—linearly!—like plastic beads on one of their hideous necklaces, seemed to matter. I had to continually remind myself, for instance, that pricking a finger and fingering a prick meant two entirely different things.


~ Of whales and men:

We whales have no words—no distinct words that hold to a single shape of consonance and tone through time. Instead, we make pictures out of sounds. As the humans themselves declare: one picture is worth a thousand words. Can one ‘say’ a picture? The humans certainly cannot; the best they can do with their speech is to describe, for instance, certain details and impressions of a painting such as its style, its color scheme, its mood, and the objects that the painter has tried to render. If a human viewing such a painting uses human words to portray an image of it to another, nothing even close to the original will display in the other’s mind.
It is not so with us whales. When we zang vistas of underwater mountains and archipelagos of variegated coral, the clicks that burst from our flutes and return to us as echoes paint within our minds the most vivid and lovely of seascapes. Even a baby orca can remember the precise pattern of those clicks and reproduce it, thus sharing what she sees with her mother, grandmother, and sisters and brothers.
So it is with the other sounds we orcas make and all the myriad other things that we wish to convey. There is a geography to information, ideas, emotions, and stories. We click, chirp, and sing, and so illustrate these almost perfectly when we wish to take our time. Or we can do as the humans do and choose sounds to represent the mentations of our minds. Unlike the humans, however, we can choose to what degree of abstraction we wish to enfold meaning into a ‘word’ and therefore the degree of actuality with which that word is instantiated. And the words we choose to make do not cling to a single shape like a human sculpture carved out of stone, but rather shift and undulate, expand and contract, as a rainbow jellyfish changes colors as it moves from one habitat to another.
How can the humans bear to freeze the meanings of what they wish to say into cold, hard, dead words like so many stiffened corpses laid out on a sheet of ice? How crude, how limiting! How I wished I could breathe the warm breath of life into the humans and their language and teach them to truly speak! Had I been able to do so, this is what I would have told them:
When our utterances are free to flow and conform to the contours of reality, they can depict that reality more exactly and with greater truth; when they are crammed into the cold coffins of words, they become mummified into dubious assumptions, fixed ideas, unproved theories, prejudices, and crazy beliefs—and so feed the gaping, black maw of the Great Lie.
We whales learned long ago to make our language according to the inspiration of the sea. In all that we say, sounds are assembled together like a lovely, three–dimensional rush of water droplets. Each sparkling droplet relates to every other in a shimmering interconnectedness of nuance and implication. Thus the tones of our chirps and whistles resonate in ever–shifting eddies and whorls of allusion that form up into currents of meaning only in context with each other. Meanings gather and then move apart in swells of concepts, communications, thoughts, songs, and all the other manifestations of the ineffable orca spirit. And meaning and emotion become as one in a living music reverberating with colors of sound that no human has ever seen or heard: glimbe and glent, inkvol, tanglow, and tintigloss, and, of course, the color of quenging which is glorre. In this way, out of the essential fluidity of the life of the mind, we make of all the myriad rainbow droplets a lovely picture of sound.
If we wish, we can crystallize the connotative and the implicate into denotative symbols much as the humans do. When these bits of colored ice are embedded in a sound picture, they subtly shape or altogether change its meaning. And the pictures themselves can be enfolded into new sound symbols in a kind of lovely, fractalling double recursion that is as beautiful to behold as it is difficult to describe.
O humans—what do you see when you speak? What do you hear, what do you feel? Do your words swim side by side with truth? Does your heart leap with the beauty of all that you think and say? Do you sense your creator deep within yourself, painting a picture with burning raindrops of light and singing you into being in a glorious, golden song? Do your words thrill your blood with symphonies of infinite possibilities and make magic in your soul?


I wonder how many of these observations are based on actual research. Not too few, something tells me.

~ ... and languages, oh lovely languages:

Sometime after I had tucked my seventy-seventh language into my metaphoric belt, I realized that I had been too hasty in my assessment of how the humans perceive the world. Each language, I learned, is like a sound filter which lets in various aspects of reality while tuning others out. I discovered languages that are nearly as different from English as Orcalish is from the speech of the deep gods. These languages—at least certain features of them—I loved. Silbo, for instance, consists entirely of whistles that can be heard from one ridge or valley to the next by its ‘speakers’ who wish to communicate with far-off members of their clan. Piraha has no words for colors, and the Pirahans seem able to communicate without words at all by translating their phonetic tones into a series of whistles and hums. The language called !X66, or Taa, has 164 consonants of which 111 are clicks. In Archi, any verb can have more than a million separate conjugations depending on how it is used. Something similar occurs in Yupik. The speakers of this beguiling tongue can create words for precise situations, even as we orcas do. And as with Orcalish, none of the resultant Yupik word parts make sense unless used in a specific word in context with others.
It came to me that my supposition of an essential human pathology might have been wrong. I had worried that the atomization of human languages into separate words mirrored the atomization of the humans’ separate selves and their individual consciousnesses, thus leading to alienation and a sense of separation from the natural world. My learning of Piraha, Yupik, and other languages gave me to understand that not all humans divide up reality into cold, dead pieces as do speakers of English and French.
On the other hand—and one always had to keep an image of hands close to the mind when contemplating humans and their mysterious ways—the problem of human alienation might have been even worse than I wanted to believe. For nearly all human languages had words for human beings and others for animals. Nearly all, by implication or outright definition, thus elevated human beings above and beyond all other species. It was as if the humans saw themselves as forming the apex of a pyramid of life whose only purpose lay in supporting the great density of humans and lifting them up higher toward the sun.


~ Part 13, where the orcas come up with a collective story (what we call буриме in Bulgarian) about the stupidest humans imaginable, is both horrendous and hilarious. It made me wonder if my first discovery of black humor was a defensive reaction after my discovery of some unspeakable horror--such as the extent to which we've raped the Earth.

I wish I could quote a sample, but the story is too interconnected to allow this kind of "surgery." So go, go read it. ;)

~ This conversation addresses an issue that has bugged me for a long time: the struggle between free will and automatic reactions. Many schools of psychology seem willing to excuse our uglier actions with the latter. Helen (who each year starts smoking and gives it up again, to steel her will) does not. I ... I don't know.

(Can we ever have a general, always-applicable answer to a big question?)

~ Arjuna gets nasty angslan-y.

~ Reductionism: one of my pet peeves. ;)

~ A gift for those familiar with Zindell's Requiem for Homo Sapiens:

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‘How would I like you to be?’ I asked him. His eye gleamed with surprise.
‘Very good,’ he said. ‘Well . . . how?’
I thought about this. I told him of a character in one of the humans’ books.
‘As I perceive, laughter comes quickly to your mind and flute,’ I said. ‘The one with whom I hope to speak finds laughter in all things, especially in himself.’
‘Go on,’ he laughed out.
‘Well, you can be stern, even harsh, but you are essentially kind.’
‘Go on.’
‘You love the truth, though you believe that no mind can encompass all of it.’
‘Go on.’
‘You try to perceive this truth through a million million eyes, even though you have only two.’
‘One, actually, that works. Go on.’
‘You are wise and caring, but in pursuit of the truth, you do not mind causing others—and yourself—the most bitter of pain. You call this mental anguish of new realizations the anglsan.’
‘Oh, ho! I like that word—go on.’
‘The highest purpose, you teach, is to say yes to life in its totality and to live each moment, even the terrible ones, with joy.’
For a while, as the sea sloshed gray and mountainous around us, I told him more of the traits of the great teacher that I invited him to be. When I had finished, he said, ‘Now that is a game I might enjoy. I will be an alien come to teach the weak-minded humans how to be greater, all the while concealing the fact that I am actually a human myself masquerading as a wiser and more intelligent being.’
‘It should not be exactly a masquerade,’ I said. ‘In truth, you have become a greater being, yes? Your patience, your wisdom, your tenderness—these cannot be an act. You must find these things inside yourself, and bring them forth.’
‘Ha, ho! Must I, then? Well, young orca who thinks of himself as human, do not worry: I am large; I contain multitudes. So let us play.’
I blew out an old breath and drew in a new. The deep god had consented to talk to me! I must be careful of what I said.
‘I would like to know your name,’ I told him.
‘I do not have a name, as you think of names, and if I did, you would not be able to say it. Why don’t you call me Old Father?’


~ The novel excels at capturing the paradox of human nature. (Human natures?) At the last sentence, I shuddered--in self-recognition too. ("If there's an explicit war between bears and humans, I'll go fight right away--and not for the humans" is a sentiment that I've espoused to various degrees over the years and the idiocies I've witnessed.)

So ... what is Arjuna? And what am I?

~ I know what Arjuna and I are: Friends. Like-minded creatures/Съмишленици. Brothers-in-arms, against the various embodiments of idiocy.

So, friend, brother-in-arms, like-minded one: Will we get to talk eye to eye, tongue to flute one day?
Last edited by Кал on Sat Nov 28, 2020 11:09 am, edited 1 time in total.
Reason: осъвременявам
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Re: Зиндел

Postby Кал » Sat Aug 19, 2017 3:49 pm

Какво умее да прави Зиндел с нас... все още, все още. Дори без да го е замислял...

In her Goodreads review of The Idiot Gods, Nancy Townsend wrote:I received a copy of this book through Goodreads Giveaways - thank you very much - but this has not influenced my review.

Okay! I get it! Orcas are wonderful and humans are horrid.

This book is beautifully written, poetic, wordy and what a lovely subject matter. But. I'm afraid I've given up after about 300 pages. I can't take any more and need to read something else. I feel like I've had the same message sledgehammered into my skull over and over again - Orcas are good, humans are bad. Orcas are clever, humans are stupid. Orcas are beautiful, humans are ugly (tentacles, really?). Orcas are right, humans are wrong. Too much, too boring. I think I've gone off Orcas as well.


Кал wrote:Arjuna eventually has a change of heart (and mind). We're not beyond hope. ;)


Nancy wrote:Thank you Kalin. I don't feel good about not enjoying the book. I really tried. I think possibly it's a bit too strong for depressives like myself.


Кал wrote:Oh, it does have parts that can be excruciating, especially if you're in a more fragile phase. (I'm bipolar myself ... I know depression.) So picking the right time for reading it is crucial for enjoying/enduring it. (It also helps when you're already familiar with David Zindell and his faith in our infinite possibilities. Even when the novel became very bleak--like when
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Arjuna started planning a genocide against humanity
--I knew there'd be a light at the end of the tunnel. And I guessed right. :)

Actually, I have two different types of books on my To-read list: ones that I can read any time--they're lighter, unfailingly positive, preferably humorous; and others that I approach only when I feel stable enough. Several months ago, I purged a sizable chunk of the second type from my list. I thought, why should I read writers who haven't bothered to consider how their books will impact more sensitive readers? It's one of those subtle kinds of discrimination (or sheer insensitivity) that we need to make explicit so that more people, and especially more writers, become aware of it.


Nancy wrote:Well you've given me food for thought. I don't think I'm bipolar, but I do have some good days among the bad. I didn't think about different reading matter for different days but I do find myself putting certain books to the bottom of the reading pile so often that I end up taking them to the charity shop to stop the guilty feelings. After reading your message, I ran upstairs and made two piles - Happy and Sad. Idiot Gods is now on the Happy pile and hopefully I will be able to re-read it when I am in the right frame of mind. Thank you again Kalin.


Кал wrote::)))

(I wish I could express how happy your response made me. My words suddenly took a vacation, though, so this smiley will have to do. :D )


Nancy wrote:It is a very nice smiley. :D

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Re: Зиндел

Postby Кал » Wed Aug 30, 2017 10:42 am

И още...

In response to an unflattering review of Neverness on Goodreads, Кал wrote:Unfortunately, I read Neverness too long ago to keep a clear memory of the events, so I can't offer any answers to the questions you raise here. (Except perhaps one: slel-necking is a crime, of the most heinous variety, on the Civilized Worlds, that particular portion of future humankind where Icefall lies. The one that has banned all genetic experiments, nuclear weaponry, economics :DDD, etc. However, genetic engineering is perfectly okay in other parts of the universe.)

I also share you dislike for most of the characters here, especially Mallory. What kept me going were the ideas: so many and so (at the time; I was 20-ish then) new.

Now ... would you, after such a horrible experience ;), still give a chance to the next books (comprising the proper Requiem for Homo Sapiens trilogy)? I promise you that their protagonist, Mallory's son Danlo, is an entirely different species. (In fact, some people hate on him because he's "too much of a saint." I don't think they have read the trilogy carefully enough. Or they just haven't looked hard enough at their fellow beings.)

Unfortunately, I can't promise you that there will be much progress with the female characters. Darn ... who, who writes fine female characters? This has been a perennial quest of mine, and it's been as hard to find them as it is to find believable optimistic futures in SF. Both of these absences make me incredibly sad. :(((


Shaitanah wrote:Oh, thank you for explaining! I confess at some points my attention would start to drift, so I might have missed some world-building points, especially since they weren't explained clearly anyway. I can't say the experience was horrible per se (I've read worse books, I imagine), but you know how sometimes you come into something with high hopes and it turns out quite a bit different from what you've imagined so it's a disappointment in the long run? I think it was something like that for me.

I'm considering giving the other books a try but I need a break from this 'verse now. Maybe later :))

This has been a perennial quest of mine, and it's been as hard to find them as it is to find believable optimistic futures in SF. Both of these absences make me incredibly sad. I couldn't agree more! These are exactly the two points that turn me off quite a lot of sci fi novels. Or novels in general, to be honest. For some reason this silly idea that the only good books are serious and bleak persists, as though optimism automatically renders a novel unrealistic! It's so annoying. :(


Кал wrote::)

Just a caveat for The Broken God, the first part of the Requiem: you may want to skip the first hundred or so pages where young Danlo undergoes circumcision (in a VERY graphic fashion) and then struggles to reach the city of Neverness. They've turned off a large number of readers, and the circumcision in particular shocked poor 17-year-old me.

But once you get to Old Father, the fun--I mean, the vastening--starts for real. ;)

Also, I'll be very glad to hear your recommendations for novels (irrespective of their genre) that have:

a) appealing female characters

or

b) better futures/positive outlooks on our present.

(Or both? Okay, I'm getting waaaaaay greedy ....)

P.S. I myself never warmed to Dune. I've started reading most of the books several times ... and I couldn't find a single character I can relate to, so I stopped. I've had the same problem with most of Herbert's books: too cold for me.


Shaitanah wrote:Heh, this author does enjoy physiological horrors, doesn't he?

I can't even say why I love Dune so much. I confess I haven't read the whole series (only the first 4 books) and there were portions of Children of Dune, which I found either creepy or boring, but overall, I find the world of Dune fascinating (if not very optimistic either >_<). I first read it as a teen, then reread the first book a couple of years ago and was pleased to see I still loved it. But I know what you mean: when I don't feel for the characters or have any points of connection with them, it's a bigger turn off for me than poor plot. Fortunately, I've always liked Paul himself, and I quite liked some other characters in Dune, so this wasn't a problem.

Short of Pratchett, no recs immediately spring to mind, but I think you've read more of him than I did XD I'll keep thinking. But honestly, that IS the problem: older books are sexist, newer books are either also sexist or just plain bad; at best, they're depressing as hell. I have the same problem with movies and TV-shows, but I think books are even worse off at the moment. T_T


Кал wrote:Noooo! Not body horror! Zindell enjoys visceral experiences! :D

Judging from his autobio Splendor, he went through some pretty extreme things in his life. But seriously, nothing remotely similar happens in the Requiem after that first shocker. Also, it's supposed to depict a rite of passage in a particular cultural tradition--there I go with the ten-dollar words :/--not to shock us per se. Zindell studied quite a lot of anthropology. Well, he studied quite a lot of everything, and tried to tie it all together, which is why I love him so. Have you actually seen my essay „Достатъчно“ about our "affair"? ;)

(Loving a book often has to do with the age we first met her, erm, him, argh, you know what I mean. :D )

Hmmm ... in that case, if you ever need any recs, have a look at my 5-stars. They're far and few between, and most embrace this constructive quality I've been questing for. Even if they fail in the female characterization department. :(


Dj wrote:I have felt the same dismay over lack of strong and well developed women in sci-fi. I think of Joss Whedon and Firefly and wish there were plenty of equivalents in novels. Those women were such great characters.

Fantasy genre is generally much more attuned to women, it seems. Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time series, Marion Zimmer Bradley's Avalon books, for example.

Dystopian and apocalyptic have dominated long enough. Wouldn't it be great to read a few epic, world-building, utopian novels?


Shaitanah wrote:Kalin, I'm sorry for such a delayed reply! I've read your essay, it's a beautiful piece of writing <3
I agree about the age having a lot to do with loving a book. I have certain favourites, which I'm sure are forever (because I've read them at various ages and they're still strong for me), but there are definitely some books that I don't love as much now as I used to. For me, the affair also has a lot to do with mood. With Neverness, I was supposedly in the right mood (I wanted to read quality space sci-fi and I got it), but well, we just didn't click. I think I will check out the trilogy eventually, just to see if I click with it better than I did with Neverness :)) Thank you for the recs, too! I'll keep an eye out for something that fits our parameters, but I don't have much hope for now >_< As DJ has noted in the comment above, TV-shows seem to have better luck in this department than books do T_T

DJ, I couldn't agree more! I can name several great TV-shows that have well fleshed out characters and a not-too-depressing storyline, but books? /siiiigh
This is such a mystery to me, to be honest! Real life is depressing enough; why do people have such a fondness for dark and bleak storylines in books too? It's frustrating! I'm not saying everything should be unrealistically sunshine-y but imho when RL is scary, some good escapist fantasy would come in handy.


Кал wrote:Thank you, Shaitanah! :)

I'm not even talking about escapism (I flushed it out of my system the moment I read The Neverending Story ... don't remember if it was the first, the second or the third reading, though ;). I'm talking about stories that capture the positive (future/present/you name it) we're all capable of. Like David Brin's Earth (or pretty much each of his books).

Ah, TV shows! Ah, Korean doramas! <333 :DDD

BTW, dreaming of inspiring heroines, I give you ... Юна. ;) While femininity is not her strongest suit (which has to do with my general reluctance to take place in the gender wars--or for that matter, gender definitions), she embodies certain traits that I'd like to see more often, in fiction and life alike. If you happen to like her, this is just the first story in an ongoing cycle. (And no, she
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doesn't die at the end
;).)
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Re: Зиндел

Postby Broken Dragon » Tue Sep 05, 2017 10:18 pm

Кал wrote:~ Reductionism: one of my pet peeves. ;)


Допреди година бих се съгласил напълно с отношението ти спрямо редукционизма, но сега само ме напушва един такъв смях... заради новата ми мисловна възприятелна парадигма.

Да не говорим, че в този откъс, който си поместил, Arjuna* несъзнателно дава на опонента си възможност да извади най-пределният контра-аргумент - то даже е заложено във финалната реторика на косатката. Но, разбира се, за да осъзнае това, ученият трябва да не е редукционист; или пък обратното - трябва да е съвършен редукционист, което обаче ще бъде moot point от гледна точка на диспута. :D

Отделно, (само)иронията на The Idiot Gods е не просто като падаща наковалня, а е направо цяла орбитална бомбардировка с астероиди - Зиндел пише за бедността и привидната студенина на човешкото слово, използвайки... said слово. Anvilicious indeed.
В началото реагирах доста отбранително на откъсите, които са цитирани/линкнати тук по тая линия, обаче после grok-нах къде зимуват раците. ;)

Sigh, а като се замисля колко обиден щях да бъда от тази книга само допреди няколко години... а сега се смея (и си разширявам хоризонта). 'Ма все още боли и е трудно, де.

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*Буквата "j" в името на Arjuna като "дж" ли се чете, или е испанското "х", което напоследък стана модерно в англоезичната литература?
Last edited by Кал on Wed Sep 06, 2017 8:37 am, edited 1 time in total.
Reason: махам излишен spoiler етикет
IN ORDER TO RISE AGAINST THE TIDE, ONE MUST FIRST BE BELOW IT.

Аз съм графист, а не кечист.
(Ама вече разбирам и от кеч, ако трябва)

'Tis I, master of the first floor, aspirant to the last, the Broken Dragon.


Accepting reality since 2017

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