Цитатите, които ни промиха

[Кал]

(...) A T’lan Imass army marched by here, not so long ago. Did they find me? No. Why? I was hidden in my chest, of course. Did they find the chest? No, because it was a rock. Did they note the rock? Perhaps. But then, it was only a rock. Now, I know what you’re thinking, and you would be precisely correct. The sorcery I speak of is not Omtose Phellack. But why would I seek to employ Omtose Phellack, when that is the very scent the T’lan Imass hunted? Oh no. Is there some cosmic law that Jaghut can only use Omtose Phellack? I’ve read a hundred thousand night skies and have yet to see it written there—oh, plenty of other laws, but nothing approaching that one, neither in detail nor intent. Thus saving us the bloody recourse of finding a Forkrul Assail to adjudicate, and believe me, such adjudication is invariably bloody. Rarely indeed is anyone satisfied. Rarer still that anyone is left alive. Is there justice in such a thing, I ask you? Oh yes, perhaps the purest justice of all. On any given day, the aggrieved and the aggriever could stand in each other’s clothes. Never a question of right and wrong, in truth, simply one of deciding who is least wrong. Do you grasp—’

‘What I grasp,’ Karsa cut in, ‘is the smell of burning meat.’

‘Ah, yes. Rare are my moments of discourse—’

‘I had no idea.’

‘—which cannot be said for this meat. Of course you wouldn’t, since we have just met. But I assure you, I have little opportunity to talk—’

‘There in your chest.’

Cynnigig grinned. ‘Precisely. You have the gist of it. Precisely. Thelomen Toblakai indeed.’

Karsa handed the Jaghut a beaker filled with wine. ‘Alas, my hand has warmed it some.’

‘I’ll suffer the degradation, thank you. Here, help yourself to the deer. Charcoal is good for you, did you know that? Cleanses the digestive tract, confounds the worms, turns your excrement black. Black as a forest bear’s. Recommended if you are being pursued, for it will fool most, barring those who have made a study of excrement, of course.’

‘And do such people exist?’

‘I have no idea. I rarely get out. What preening empires have risen only to then fall beyond the Jhag Odhan? Pomposity choking on dust, these are cycles unending among short-lived creatures. I do not grieve for my own ignorance. Why should I? Not knowing what I have missed means I do not miss what I do not know. How could I? Do you see? Aramala was ever questing for such pointless knowledge, and look where it got her. Same for Phyrlis, whom you will meet tomorrow. She can never see beyond the leaves in front of her face, though she ceaselessly strives to do so, as if the vast panorama offers something other than time’s insectile crawl. Empires, thrones, tyrants and liberators, a hundred thousand tomes filled with versions of the same questions, asked over and over again. Will answers deliver their promised solace? I think not. Here, cook some more, Karsa Orlong, and drink more wine—you see the carafe never empties. Clever, isn’t it? Now, where was I?’

‘You rarely get out.’

‘Indeed. What preening empires have risen only to then fall beyond the Jhag Odhan? Pomposity choking…’

Karsa’s eyes narrowed on the Jhag Odhan, then he reached for the wine.

[Кал]

‘Most beloved bodyguard, whatever is wrong?’

Red-rimmed eyes stared up at him. ‘You’re not interested. Not really. Nobody is.’

‘Of course I’m interested. Bugg, I’m interested, aren’t I? It’s my nature, isn’t it?’

‘Absolutely, master. Most of the time.’

‘It’s the women, isn’t it, Ublala? I can tell.’

The huge man nodded miserably.

‘Are they fighting over you?’

He shook his head.

‘Have you fallen for one of them?’

‘That’s just it. I haven’t had a chance to.’

Tehol glanced over at Bugg, then back to Ublala. ‘You haven’t had a chance to. What a strange statement. Can you elaborate?’

‘It’s not fair, that’s what it is. Not fair. You won’t understand. It’s not a problem you have. I mean, what am I? Am I to be nothing but a toy? Just because I have a big—’

‘Hold on a moment,’ Tehol cut in. ‘Let’s see if I fully understand you, Ublala. You feel they’re just using you. Interested only in your, uh, attributes. All they want from you is sex. No commitment, no loyalty even. They’re happy taking turns with you, taking no account of your feelings, your sensitive nature. They probably don’t even want to cuddle afterwards or make small talk, right?’

Ublala nodded.

‘And all that is making you miserable?’

He nodded again, snuffling, his lower lip protruding, his broad mouth downturned at the corners, a muscle twitching in his right cheek.

Tehol stared for a moment longer, then he tossed up his hands. ‘Ublala! Don’t you understand? You’re in a man’s paradise! What all the rest of us can only dream about!’

‘But I want something more!’

‘No! You don’t! (...) You are at the pinnacle of male achievement, my friend—wait! Did you say it’s not a problem I have? What did you mean by that?’

Ublala blinked. ‘What? Uh, are you at that pinnacle, or whatever you called it—are you at it too?’

Bugg snorted. ‘He hasn’t been at it in months.’

‘Well, that’s it! (...) All right, Bugg, let’s go and get her. As for this brainless giant here, he can mope around all alone in here, for all I care. How many insults can a sensitive man like me endure, anyway?’

(...)

‘You should be more sympathetic to Ublala, master,’ Bugg said over a shoulder. ‘He’s a very unhappy man.’

‘Sympathy belongs to the small-membered, Bugg. Ublala has three women drooling all over him, or have you forgotten?’

[spoiler]В превод на Валерий Русинов:

— Прескъпи ни телохранителю, какво има?
Зяпнаха го две зачервени очи.
— Не ви интересува. Изобщо. Никой не го интересува.
— О, разбира се, че ме интересува. Бъг, интересува ме, нали? Това ми е в характера, нали?
— Абсолютно, господарю. Обикновено.
— Заради жените е, нали, Ублала? Познах.
Грамадният мъж кимна нещастно.
— Да не се бият заради тебе?
Ублала поклати глава.
— Да не си хлътнал по някоя от тях?
— Точно затуй. Нямам възможност.
Техол се извърна към Бъг, после отново изгледа Ублала.
— Не си имал възможност? Странно твърдение. Би ли се изяснил?
— Не е честно, ей това е. Не е честно. Няма да разберете. Тоя проблем го нямате. Искам да кажа, какво съм аз? Само играчка ли? Само защото имам голям…
— Задръж — прекъсна го Техол. — Да видим дали те разбирам добре, Ублала. Чувстваш, че те просто те използват. Интересува ги само твоя, ъъъ… твоите атрибути. Единственото, което искат от теб, е секс. Никакво обвързване, нито преданост дори. Доволни са, че се редуват с теб, без да отчитат твоите чувства, чувствителния ти характер. Сигурно дори не искат да се гушкат след това или да си побъбрите малко, нали?
Ублала кимна.
— И всичко това те прави нещастен?
Ублала кимна отново, подсмръкна, нацупи се, широката му уста се разкриви, един мускул заигра по дясната му буза.
Техол го зяпна, след което вдигна отчаяно ръце.
— Ублала! Не разбираш ли? Та ти си попаднал в мъжкия рай! Имаш онова, за което всички ние можем само да мечтаем!
— Но аз искам нещо повече!
— Не! Не искаш! (...) Ти си в апогея си бе, приятел… я чакай! Каза ли, че тоя проблем го нямам? Какво означава това?
Ублала примига.
— Какво? Ъъъ, и ти ли си в този апогей, или както там го нарече… и двамата ли сте?
— Той не е бил от месеци — изсумтя Бъг.
— Е, стига! (...) Добре, Бъг, да ходим да я прибираме. А този безмозъчен великан тука да си скърби колкото си ще, все ми е едно. Колко обиди може да понесе чувствителен човек като мене, а?

(...)

— Трябваше да проявите повечко съчувствие към Ублала, господарю — подхвърли през рамо Бъг, който вървеше на крачка напред. — Много е нещастен горкият.
— Съчувствието е за слабо надарените, Бъг. Върху Ублала се лигавят три жени, да не си забравил?

[/spoiler]

[Кал]

След горния разговор следва посещение в бардак. Първокласен. С традиции. И иновативен интериор:

The stairs were steep but well padded, the wooden railing beneath their hands an unbroken undulation of lovingly carved breasts polished and oiled by countless sweaty palms.

[spoiler]В превод на Валерий Русинов:

Стъпалата бяха стръмни, но застлани със скъп килим, а дървеното перило под ръцете им беше на непрекъснати вълни от изящно изваяни гърди, лъскави и мазни от безброй потни длани.

[/spoiler]

А после...

Bugg studied his master. ‘I am very impressed,’ he said after a moment. ‘I’d thought this a situation without a solution. Master, my admiration for you grows like a—’

‘Stop staring at that railing, Bugg.’

‘Uh, yes. You’re right.’

[spoiler]

В коридора Бъг изгледа господаря си и каза:
— Впечатлен съм. Мислех, че ситуацията е нерешима. Господарю, възхищението ми към теб расте като…
— Престани да зяпаш това перило, Бъг.
— Ъъъ, да. Прав си.

[/spoiler]

И след това...

‘Oh. All right, but I’m not happy. Too many comings and goings there. Suspicions will be insatiably aroused—’

‘Stop staring at the railing, master.’

‘Errant’s dreams! Let’s get out of here.’

[spoiler]

— Хм. Добре. Но не ми харесва. Много оживено ще стане. Ще възникнат ненаситни подозрения…
— Стига си зяпал перилото, господарю.
— Сънища на Блудния! Да се махаме оттук.

[/spoiler]

[Кал]

We-men:

‘I intend to rob Gerun Eberict’s estate,’ Shurq said to Ublala. ‘But there are outlying watchers that need taking care of. Can you create a diversion, Ublala Pung?’

The huge man scratched his jaw. ‘I don’t know. I got nothing against them—’

‘They don’t like you.’

‘They don’t? Why?’

‘No reason. They just don’t.’

‘Then I don’t like them either.’

‘So you say, but I haven’t seen any proof.’

‘You want proof? Good. Let’s go.’

Shurq hooked one arm in Ublala’s and led him towards the far edge of the roof. ‘We have to jump to that other roof,’ she said. ‘I don’t think you can do it, Ublala. Not quietly, anyway.’

‘Yes I can. I’ll show you I can.’

‘We’ll see…’

Tehol stared after them, then he swung to Bugg.

The manservant shrugged. ‘It’s the complexities of the male mind, master.’

[Кал]

Bugg looked on in silence for a half-dozen heartbeats, then said, ‘Master, transporting them out to the Isles won’t solve anything.’

‘No?’

‘These are broken spirits.’

‘Beyond hope of recovery?’

‘Well, that depends on how paternalistic you intend to be, master. The rigours of past lifestyles are beyond these people. We’re a generation or more too late. They’ve not old skills to fall back on, and as a community this one is intrinsically flawed. It breeds violence and neglect and little else.’

‘I know what you’re saying, Bugg. You’re saying you’ve had better nights and the timing wasn’t good, not good at all. You’re miserable, you’ve got a chill, you should be in bed.’

‘Thank you, master. I was wondering myself.’

(...)

‘So, what have you planned, master?’

‘The challenge facing myself and the sharp minds of the Rat Catchers’ Guild, was, as you have observed, how does one reshape an entire society? How does one convert this impressive example of the instinct to survive into a communally positive force? Clearly, we needed to follow a well-established, highly successful social structure as our inspiration—’

‘Rats.’

‘Well done, Bugg. I knew I could count on you. Thus, we began with recognizing the need for a leader. Powerful, dynamic, charismatic, dangerous.’

‘A criminal mastermind with plenty of thugs to enforce his or her will.’

Tehol frowned. ‘Your choice of words disappoints me, Bugg.’

‘You?’

‘Me? Of course not. Well, not directly, that is. A truly successful leader is a reluctant leader. Not one whose every word is greeted with frenzied cheering either—after all, what happens to the mind of such a leader, after such scenes are repeated again and again? A growing certainty, a belief in one’s own infallibility, and onward goes the march into disaster. No, Bugg, I won’t have anyone kissing my feet—’

‘I’m relieved to hear that, master, since those feet have not known soap in a long, long time.’

‘The body eventually resumes its own natural cleansing mechanisms, Bugg.’

‘Like shedding?’

‘Exactly. In any case, I was speaking of leadership in a general sort of way—’

‘Who, master?’

‘Why, the Waiting Man, of course. Occasional priest, healer, consorter with demons…’

‘That’s probably not such a good idea, master,’ Bugg said, rubbing his bristled jaw. ‘I am rather…busy at the moment.’

‘A leader should be busy. Distracted. Preoccupied. Prepared to delegate.’

‘Master, I really don’t think this is a good idea. Really.’

‘Perfectly reluctant, perfect! And look! You’ve been noticed! See those hopeful faces—’

‘That’s hunger, master.’

‘For salvation! Word’s gone out, you see. They’re ready for you, Bugg. They’ve been waiting…’

‘This is very bad, master.’

‘Your expression is perfect, Bugg. Sickly and wan with dismay, deeply troubled and nervous, yes indeed. I couldn’t have managed better myself.’

‘Master—’

‘Go out among your flock, Bugg. Tell them—they’re leaving. Tomorrow night. All of them. A better place, a better life awaits them. Go on, Bugg.’

‘As long as no-one worships me,’ the manservant replied. ‘I don’t like being worshipped.’

‘Just stay fallible,’ Tehol said.

[spoiler]И на български, в превод на Валерий Русинов:

Бъг погледа мълчаливо няколко секунди, после отрони:
— Господарю, прехвърлянето им по Островите няма да реши нищо.
— Нима?
— Духовете им са сломени.
— И няма надежда да се съживят?
— Е, зависи колко бащинска грижа си решил да положиш, господарю. Предишният суров стил на живот вече е непосилен за тези хора. Закъснели сме с едно поколение, или повече. Няма ги уменията, на които да се опрат. Ако това е общност, тя е вътрешно порочна. Поражда насилие, немарливост и почти нищо друго.
— Разбирам те, Бъг. Искаш да кажеш, че си имал и по-приятни нощи от тази, че моментът изобщо, ама изобщо не е добър за това. Ти си нещастен, настинал си и ти се иска да си легнеш на топло.
— Благодаря, господарю. Тъкмо се чудех какво искам да кажа.
(...)
— Какво си намислил, господарю?
— Предизвикателството пред мен и острите умове от Гилдията на ловците на плъхове беше, както си забелязал, как човек може да промени цяло едно общество? Как се превръща този впечатляващ пример на инстинкта за оцеляване в общественополезна сила? Ясно е, че трябваше, да, трябваше да се вдъхновим от една здраво установена, силно успешна структура като…
— Плъховете.
— Браво, Бъг. Знаех си, че мога да разчитам на теб. И така, започнахме с признаването, че е необходим водач. Властен, динамичен, харизматичен, опасен.
— Душата и мозъкът на престъпния свят, с банда главорези, които да налагат волята му.
Техол се намръщи.
— Твоят избор на думи ме разочарова, Бъг.
— Ти?
— Аз? Не, разбира се. В смисъл — не пряко. Истински успешният водач е този, който го прави с неохота. Не някой, чиито думи се посрещат с разпалени възгласи — в края на краищата какво става в ума на такъв водач, след като подобни сцени започнат да се повтарят непрекъснато? Нарастваща самоувереност, вяра в собствената му непогрешимост — и така се стига до ужасния провал. Не, Бъг, не искам да ми целуват краката…
— Радвам се да го чуя, господарю. Краката ви не са виждали сапун от доста време.
— Тялото рано или късно възстановява естествените си самопочистващи механизми, Бъг.
— Като смяната на перушината?
— Точно. Все едно, говорех за лидерството в най-общ смисъл…
— Кой, господарю?
— Е как, Чакащия, разбира се. Ту жрец, ту знахар, общуващ с демони…
— Идеята май не е много добра, господарю — рече Бъг и се потърка по наболата брада. — Аз съм… доста претрупан с работа в момента.
— Един водач трябва да е претрупан с работа. Зает. Готов да делегира.
— Господарю, наистина не мисля, че идеята е добра. Наистина.
— Изпълнен с нежелание. Идеално! И виж! Забелязват те! Виж тези обнадеждени лица…
— Това е глад, господарю.
— За спасение! Разчуло се е, разбираш ли! Те са готови за теб, Бъг. Чакали са…
— Това е много лошо, господарю.
— Изражението ти е идеалното, Бъг. Болнаво, отчаяно, дълбоко угрижено и нервно — чудесно. Самият аз нямаше да се справя по-добре.
— Но, господарю…
— Иди сред своето стадо, Бъг. Кажи им — те заминават. Утре през нощта. Всички. Очаква ги по-добро място, по-добър живот. Хайде, Бъг.
— Стига да не ме боготворят — отвърна слугата. — Не обичам да ме боготворят.
— Просто си остани несъвършен — каза Техол.

[/spoiler]

[spoiler]This ... is not so funny as I thought when I first read it.

Perhaps ... it is not funny at all.[/spoiler]

[Кал]

Stumbling, crawling, or dragging themselves along through the bed of white ash, they all came to where Bottle sat, the sky a swirl of stars overhead. Saying nothing, not one of those soldiers, but each in turn managing one gentle gesture – reaching out and with one finger, touching the head of Y’Ghatan the rat.

Tender, with great reverence – until she bit that finger, and the hand would be snatched back with a hissed curse.

One after another, Y’Ghatan bit them all.

She was hungry, Bottle explained, and pregnant. So he explained. Or tried to, but no-one was really listening. It seemed that they didn’t even care, that her bite was part of the ritual, now, a price of blood, the payment of sacrifice.

He told those who would listen that she had bitten him too.

But she hadn’t. Not her. Not him. Their souls were inextricably bound, now. And things like that were complicated, profound even. He studied the creature where it was settled in his lap. Profound, yes, that was the word.

He stroked her head. My dear rat. My sweet—ow! Damn you! Bitch!

Black, glittering eyes looked up at him, whiskered nose twitching.

Vile, disgusting creatures.

[spoiler]В превод на Валерий Русинов:

Залитаха, пълзяха, тътреха се през засипаното с бяла пепел корито — и всички се сбраха около седналия Ботъл. Небето — въртоп от звезди над главите им. Всички войници, без нищо да кажат, и всеки поред направи един нежен жест — пресегна се и с един пръст докосна по главичката плъха Ю’Гатан.
Много нежно, с голямо благоговение — а тя ухапваше всеки пръст и бойците рязко дръпваха ръка и съскаха проклятия.
Един по един, Ю’Гатан ухапа всички.
Понеже е гладна, обясни Ботъл, и бременна. Така им обясни. Или поне се опита, но никой така и не го слушаше. Дори като че ли им беше все едно. Ухапването й вече бе част от ритуала, цена в кръв, отплащане за помощта й.
На тези, които искаха да слушат, каза, че е ухапала и него.
Но не беше. Не и тя. Не и него. Душите им вече бяха неразривно свързани. А такива неща бяха сложни, дълбоки дори. Огледа замислено животинката в скута си. Дълбоки, да, това беше думата.
Погали я по главата. „Скъпото ми плъхче. Милото ми… ох! Проклета да си! Кучка!“
Отдолу го изгледаха черни лъскави очички. Мустакатото носле помръдна.
„Зли, отвратителни същества.“

[/spoiler]

[Кал]

Cutter began loading the scull.

He paused at one point and grinned wryly. ‘Lighting a pipe’s a good way of getting out of work, isn’t it?’

‘You said you didn’t need any help.’

‘With the bailing, yes.’

‘What you don’t understand, Cutter, is the spiritual necessity for reward, not to mention the clarity that comes to one’s mind during such repasts. And in not understanding, you instead feel resentment, which sours the blood in your heart and makes you bitter. It’s that bitterness that kills people, you know, it eats them up inside.’

He studied her. ‘Meaning, I’m actually jealous?’

‘Of course you are, but because I can empathize with you, I am comfortable withholding judgement. Tell me, can you say the same for yourself?’

Barathol arrived with a pair of casks under his arms. ‘Get off your ass, woman. We’ve got a good wind and the sooner we’re on our way the better.’

She threw him a salute as she rose. ‘There you go, Cutter, a man who takes charge. Watch him, listen, and learn.’

The Daru stared at her, bemused.

She read his face: But you just said…

So I did, my young lover. We are contrary creatures, us humans, but that isn’t something we need be afraid of, or even much troubled by. And if you make a list of those people who worship consistency, you’ll find they’re one and all tyrants or would-be tyrants. Ruling over thousands, or over a husband or a wife, or some cowering child. Never fear contradiction, Cutter, it is the very heart of diversity.

[spoiler]В превод на Валерий Русинов, с мои уточнения:

Кътър започна да товари лодката.
В един момент спря и се усмихна кисело.
— Паленето на лула е добър начин да се измъкнеш от работа, нали?
— Нали каза, че не ти трябва помощ.
— С изгребването, да.
— Това, което не разбираш, Кътър, е душевната потребност от награда, да не говорим за яснотата на ума, която носят такива дребни удоволствия. А поради неразбирането си изпитваш негодувание, което вгорчава кръвта в сърцето ти и те скапва още повече. Тъкмо тази горчилка убива хората, знаеш ли, прояжда ги отвътре.
Той я изгледа.
— Искаш да кажеш, че всъщност съм ревнив?
— Разбира се, че си, но понеже мога да ти съчувствам, сдържам преценката си. Кажи ми, можеш ли да кажеш същото за себе си?
Баратол дойде с две щайги под мишниците.
— Я си размърдай задника, жено. Имаме попътен вятър и колкото по-скоро отплаваме, толкова по-добре.
Сцилара се надигна и подигравателно отдаде чест.
— Ето, Кътър, един истински мъж, който поема командването. Него гледай, слушай и се учи.
Даруджистанецът я изгледа развеселенослисано.
А тя прочете на лицето му: „Но ти току-що каза…“
„Да, казах го, млади ми любовнико. Ние сме противоречиви същества, човеците, но това не е нещо, от което трябва да се боиш, или да те тревожи особено. И ако направиш списък на онези, които се кланят на последователността, ще откриеш, че те всички до един са тирани или бъдещи тирани. Властващи над хиляди, или над съпруг или жена, или над някое плашливо дете. Никога не се страхувай от противоречието, Кътър, то е в сърцевината на разнообразието.“

[/spoiler]

P.S. Има и по-тежка версия.

[Кал]

‘Now, invite me in, before I lose my temperature.’

‘Temper, you mean.’

‘No, temperature. It’s getting chilly.’

[Кал]

We-men:

It was time to return to the estate for the evening. These precious deadly moments of domestic tranquillity – fraught as all such moments were with all that was left unspoken, the topics unbidden yet ever lurking, the hidden pitfalls and explosive nuances or even more explosive lack thereof – why, they had to come, alas, to an end, as considerations of career and professional responsibility returned once more to the fore.

‘My sweet, I must leave you now.’

‘Oh, must you?’

‘Yes. Until midnight, but don’t feel the need to wait up.’

‘I’ve had a busy day. Two new orders. I doubt I’ll be awake when you return, darling.’

‘I’ll try to be quiet.’

‘Of course you will.’

Perfunctory kiss.

Just so, the pleasant exchanges to conclude the repast just past, but of course such words were the flourishes of feint and cunning sleight of hand. Beneath the innocence, Torvald well understood, there was this: ‘My sweet, I will run not walk back to the estate now.’

‘Oh, your stomach is upset? Let’s hope you heave all over your two gate guards when you get there.’

‘Yes. And suddenly it’ll be midnight and like a doomed man I will count the steps to the gallows awaiting me at home. Pray to Beru and every other ascendant the world over that you’re asleep when I get here, or at least feigning sleep.’

‘I’ve had a busy day, husband, just thinking of all the things I’d like to do to you for breaking that promise. And when you get home, why, I’ll be dreaming dreadful scenes, each one adding to that pleasant smile on my slumbering visage.’

‘I shall attempt to sleep on no more than a hand’s span of bed, stiff as a planed board, not making a sound.’

‘Yes, you will. Darling.’

And the perfunctory kiss, smooch smooch.

Blue light painted the streets through which Torvald Nom now hurried along, blue light and black thoughts, a veritable bruising of dismay, and so the buildings to each side crowded, leaned in upon him, until he felt he was squirting – like an especially foul lump of excrement – through a sewer pipe.

[spoiler]В превод на Валерий Русинов:

Време беше да се върне в имението за вечерта. Тези скъпи, гибелни мигове на домашен уют — както бяха наситени с всичко онова, което оставаше неизречено, с отбягваните и все пак вечно дебнещи теми, със скритите капани и взривяващите нюанси, или още по-взривяващата им липса — е, те, уви, все пак трябваше да свършат, след като съображенията за кариера и професионална отговорност отново бяха изплували на повърхността.
— Мила моя, налага се вече да те оставя.
— О, наистина ли?
— Да. До полунощ. Но не се чувствай длъжна да ме чакаш.
— Имах натоварен ден. Две нови поръчки. Съмнявам се, че ще съм будна, когато се върнеш, скъпи.
— Ще се постарая да не вдигам шум.
— Разбира се.
Формална целувка.
Просто така, милите реплики, с които да приключи току-що приключилата вечеря, но всички тези думи, разбира се, бяха жестове на преструвка и ловки хитрини. Под невинността, много добре разбираше Торвалд, се криеше следното:
— Мила, няма да вървя, направо ще тичам до имението.
— О, стомахът ли ти е разстроен? Дано да го повърнеш всичкото върху двамата стражи на портата.
— Да. А после изведнъж ще стане полунощ и аз като осъден ще броя стъпките си до бесилото, което ме чака у дома. Моля се на Беру и на всички други асценденти по целия свят да си заспала, когато се върна, или поне да се престориш на заспала.
— Имах натоварен ден, съпруже, само докато си мислех за всички неща, които бих искала да ти направя затова, че наруши онова обещание. А когато се върнеш у дома, е, ще сънувам ужасни сцени и всяка ще буди доволна усмивка на спящото ми лице.
— Ще се постарая да спя поне на една педя от теб, вдървен като талпа и без да издавам звук.
— Да. Скъпи.
И формалната целувка. Мляс, мляс.
Синя светлина обагряше улиците. Торвалд Ном крачеше забързан. Синя светлина и черни мисли, пълен ужас, сградите от двете страни напираха, притискаха го, докато накрая имаше чувството, че се изсипва като миризлив екскремент през каналната тръба.

[/spoiler]

[Кал]

To wash away the poison ...

‘Perhaps some wine will wash things clean,’ suggested Bugg.
‘Won’t hurt. Pour us some, please. You, guard, come and join us—standing there doing nothing must be a dreadful bore. No need to gape like that, I assure you. Doff that helm and relax—there’s another guard just like you on the other side of that door, after all. Let him bear the added burden of diligence. Tell us about yourself. Family, friends, hobbies, scandals—’
‘Sire,’ warned Bugg.
‘Or just join us in a drink and feel under no pressure to say anything at all. This shall be one of those interludes swiftly glossed over in the portentous histories of great and mediocre kings. We sit in the desultory aftermath, oblivious to omens and whatever storm waits behind yonder horizon. Ah, thank you, Bugg—my Queen, accept that goblet and come sit on my knee—oh, don’t make that kind of face, we need to compose the proper scene. I insist and since I’m King I can do that, or so I read somewhere. Now, let’s see . . . yes, Bugg, stand right over there—oh, massaging your brow is the perfect pose. And you, dearest guard—how did you manage to hide all that hair? And how come I never knew you were a woman? Never mind, you’re an unexpected delight—ow, calm down, wife—oh, that’s me who needs to calm down. Sorry. Women in uniforms and all that. Guard, that dangling helm is exquisite by the way, take a mouthful and do pass judgement on the vintage, yes, like that, oh, most perfect!
‘Now, it’s just occurred to me that we’re missing something crucial. Ah, yes, an artist. Bugg, have we a court artist? We need an artist! Find us an artist! Nobody move!’

‘Brys, how big do you want to make your escort?’
‘Two brigades and two battalions, sire.’
‘Is that reasonable?’ Tehol asked, looking round.
‘I have no idea,’ Janath replied. ‘Bugg?’
‘I’m no general, my Queen.’
‘We need an expert opinion, then,’ said Tehol. ‘Brys?’

[Кал]

Някой би си помислил, че из тия тесни проходи не може да се открие нищо друго освен прах (какъвто наистина имаше в изобилие). До известна степен това бе вярно, ала понякога там се срещаха удивителни открития. Така малката принцеса узна къде правят гнездата си малките сиви мишлета, които тя много харесваше. Видя как слугите тайно си пийват от безценното теранско вино, предназначено само за кралската трапеза. Научи как точно се забавляват младите готвачки и гвардейците от охраната зад залостените врати на килерите, но играта не ѝ хареса особено – приличаше на борба с много пъшкане и охкане, само че накрая и двамата участници губеха схватката и се просваха изтощени.

[Кал]

– В името на инфанта, на папата и на Светия дух, отворете!
Ето, денят започва както обикновено. Сега ще му потретят да отвори и ще посочат животинската му принадлежност.
– Отвори вратата, куче! – вика някой.
Той се изправя бавно. Има великански ръст. С един удар на стилет обикновено пробожда по двама-трима. Така говори мълвата.
Поглежда през прашното прозорче с дебело стъкло.
Конят вече се спуска изпотен по сипея, цвили и набира скорост. Все по-близо и по-близо се развява гривата му. Иде.
Думкането на юмруци по входната врата се усилва.
– Не ви ли е срам? – казва им той. – Една врата не можете да изкъртите!

Отиде до нужника и почука със свит показалец.
– Влез! – каза един глас оттам.
– Е... – рече Дон Лаутада и благоразумно се отдалечи.

[Кал]

Ruthan Gudd drew off his gambeson and paused to luxuriate in the sudden escape from unbearable heat as his sweat-slicked skin cooled.
‘Well,’ said Skanarow from her cot, ‘that woke me up.’
‘My godlike physique?’
‘The smell, Ruthan.’

[Кал]

She finished her drink and put it down.
"It's getting chilly out here."
"Yes."
"Let us repair within."
"I'd like to repair."
I put down my cigar and we stood and she kissed me. So I put my arm around her trim and sparkling, blue-kept waist and we moved away from the bar, toward the archway, through the archway and beyond, into the house we were leaving.
Let's make it a triple-asterisk break:


***

[Кал]

Now, in every city into which I venture, uniforms rush upon me, dust dandruff from my collar, press a brochure into my hand, recite the latest weather report, pray for my soul, throw walk-shields over nearby puddles, wipe off my windshield, hold an umbrella over my head on sunny or rainy days, or shine an ultra-infra flashlight before me on cloudy ones, pick lint from my belly-button, scrub my back, shave my neck, zip up my fly, shine my shoes and smile—all before I can protest— right hand held at waist-level. What a goddamn happy place the universe would be if everyone wore uniforms that glinted and crinkled. Then we'd all have to smile at each other.

[Кал]

Theory surveyed his new surroundings. The landscape seemed weather-beaten and immensely old. He poked through some of the rubble. There were ancient pieces of code here, broken beyond recognition. But after turning over a larger rock, Theory saw beneath it the clear remains of a corporate logo stamped onto its surface.

“What the hell,” said Theory, “is Microsoft?”

(...)

The trail led through a gully between piles of rubble, and into what seemed, from a distance, to be the remains of a town of some sort.

A main road led into the town, and Theory followed it in. He passed a faded sign that read:

WINDOWS

That was, perhaps, the name of this desolate place.

(...)

The town had seemed simple from the outside, but after Theory entered, he was soon lost within a maze of structures that seemed to have no logic to their arrangement.

[Кал]

What a funny little bird a frog are …
When he stand he sit … when he walk he fly …

[Кал]

The baby regarded Mike gravely as she discoursed to it about a poor drowned woofum-wuffums, and did the bad man treat it badly, then. The baby belched eloquently.
“He belches in English!” I remarked.
“Did it have the windy ripples?” cooed Mike. “Give us a kiss, honey lamb.”
The baby immediately flung its little arms around her neck and planted a whopper on her mouth.
“Wow!” said Mike when she got her breath. “Shorty, could you take lessons!”
“Lessons my eye,” I said jealously. “Mike, that’s no baby, that’s some old guy in his second childhood.”

[Кал]

Masters at Work: how to do a description that dazzles

His body was tubby but his arms apparently couldn’t understand that, for they were long and scrawny. From his brow to an inch below his eyes, his nose turned up; from there on, down. His short upper lip slanted sharply toward his tonsils, which had the effect of making his chinlessness positively jut.

(...)

The bartender was fascinated by the way the teardrops proceeded down Biddiver’s amazing nose. One drop would dash almost halfway, and then hesitate, daunted by the hump. Then it would be joined by another teardrop, and the two, merging, would surmount the obstacle and slip down to hang glittering over the disappearing lip until a sob came along to shake them off.

[Кал]

It occurred to him that in all the universes there was nothing quite as devious and demanding as a woman’s mind. It likewise occurred to him that a woman is easy to control as long as she always has her way. He was determined to see how closely a man could resemble a woman’s ideal and still exist (...)

[Кал]

I thumped her on the back, picked her up and dropped her on top of her dungarees. “Put them pants on,” I said, “and be a man.” She did, but she cried quietly until I shook her and said gently, “Stop it now. I didn’t carry on like that when I was a little girl.” I got into my clothes and dumped her into the bow of the canoe and shoved off.
All the way back to the cabin I forced her to play one of our pet games. I would say something—anything—and she would try to say something that rhymed with it. Then it would be her turn. She had an extraordinary rhythmic sense, and an excellent ear.
I started off with “We’ll go home and eat our dinners.”
“An’ Lord have mercy on us sinners,” she cried. Then, “Let’s see you find a rhyme for ‘month’!”
“I bet I’ll do it … jutht thith onthe,” I replied. “I guess I did it then, by cracky.”
“Course you did, but then you’re wacky. Top that, mister funny-lookin’!”
I pretended I couldn’t, mainly because I couldn’t, and she soundly kicked my shin as a penance. By the time we reached the cabin she was her usual self, and I found myself envying the resilience of youth. And she earned my undying respect by saying nothing to Anjy about the afternoon’s events, even when Anjy looked us over and said, “Just look at you two filthy kids! What have you been doing—swimming in the bayou?”
“Daddy splashed me,” said Patty promptly.
“And you had to splash him back. Why did he splash you?”
“ ’Cause I spit mud through my teeth at him to make him mad,” said my outrageous child.
“Patty!”
“Mea culpa,” I said, hanging my head. “ ’Twas I who spit the mud.”
Anjy threw up her hands. “Heaven knows what sort of a woman Patty’s going to grow up to be,” she said, half angrily.
“A broad-minded and forgiving one like her lovely mother,” I said quickly.
“Nice work, bud,” said Patty.
Anjy laughed. “Outnumbered again. Come in and feed the face.”

[Кал]

[quote="In "Bulldozer Is a Noun," Theodore Sturgeon"]“The alternative is to locate large deposits of specifically what we need, and extract it in bulk from the earth.”
“That’s mining,” said the Drip. “There is a twenty-third century legend that youth was conscripted to work in mines. Anyhow, all young people were known as miners at one period.”[/quote]

[Кал]

[quote="In "The Chromium Helmet," Theodore Sturgeon"]“Why do you talk all the time?” I asked. It was a rhetorical question, but she cocked her head on one side and considered it carefully.
“I think it’s ’cause I don’t know any big words, like you and Mummy,” she said, just in time to pull me out of my magazine again, “so I have to use lots and lots of little ones.”[/quote]

[Кал]

Now the Gang of McCrook was a miserable mob,
for whom robbing you blind was an everyday job.

They were known for their violence and criminal feats,
for a seedy selection of sinful deceits—
from robbery, arson, and pyramid schemes,
to snatching the mascots from basketball teams.

They had once robbed a pet shop of all of its cash,
and they never—not ever—recycled their trash!

[Кал]

[quote="In "Make Room for Me," Theodore Sturgeon"]“Sometimes you characters give me a pain in the back of my lap,” said Manuel abruptly. “I hang around with you and listen to simple-minded gobbledegook in yard-long language, if it’s you talking, Dran, and pink-and-purple sissification from the brat here. Why I do it I’ll never know. And it goes that way up to the last gasp. So you’re going to leave. Dran has to make a speech, real logical. Vaughn has to blow out a sigh and get misty-eyed.” He spat.
“How would you handle it?” Dran asked, amused. Vaughn stared at Manuel whitely.
“Me? You really want to know?”
“This I want to hear,” said Vaughn between her teeth.
“I’d wait a while—a long while—until neither of you was talking. Then I’d say, ‘I joined the Marines yesterday.’ And you’d both look at me a little sad. There’s supposed to be something wrong with coming right out and saying something. Let’s see. Suppose I do it the way Vaughn would want me to.” He tugged at an imaginary braid and thrust out his lower lip in a lampoon of Vaughn’s full mouth. He sighed gustily. “I have felt …” He paused to flutter his eyelashes. “I have felt the call to arms,” he said in a histrionic whisper. He gazed off into the middle distance. “I have heard the sound of trumpets. The drums stir in my blood.” He pounded his temples with his fists. “I can’t stand it—I can’t! Glory beckons. I will away to foreign strands.”
Vaughn turned on her heel, though she made no effort to walk away. Dran roared with laughter.
“And suppose I’m you,” said Manuel, his face taut with a suppressed grin. He leaned easily against the base of the statue and crossed his legs. He flung his head back. “Zeno of Miletus,” he intoned, “in reflecting on the cromislon of the fortiseetus, was wont to refer to a razor as ‘a check for a short beard.’ While shaving this morning I correlated ‘lather’ with ‘leather’ and, seeing some of it on my neck, I recalled the old French proverb, ‘Jeanne D’Arc,’ which means: The light is out in the bathroom. The integration was complete. If the light was out I could no longer shave. Therefore I can not go on like this. Also there was this matter of the neck. I shall join the Marines. Q. E. D., which means thus spake Zarathusiasm.”
Dran chuckled. Vaughn made a furious effort, failed, and burst out laughing. When it subsided, Manuel said soberly, “I did.”
“You did what?”
“I joined the Marines yesterday.”[/quote]

[Кал]

– Ех, промениха се днешните принцеси! – подхванал темата един престарял Принц. – Само какви принцеси имаше някога! Ехеее! Днешните не могат да се мерят с тях!
– Така е! Така е и всяка година става по-лошо. Развали се света. – съгласил се Принцът на Островите. – Променя се, а промените не са на добро. Принцесите и те се развалиха. Някога е имало съвършени принцеси, но днес само в приказките можеш да ги срещнеш още. Съвършени жени е имало!
– Съвършени жени ли? Няма такива! – избухнал в смях Дебелият Принц. – Хайде някой да ми опише съвършената жена. Давам половин царство, че и коня си в добавка, ако успее.
– Ами... Съвършената жена е висока! – обадил се Принцът Джудже.
– Нееее! Съвършената жена е ниска! – оспорил Принцът Великан.
– Съвършената жена! Ех, тя е само мечта, но е стройна, като топола. – обадил се Принцът от Планината.
– Глупости! – скочил Принцът на Пустинята. – Съвършената жена е закръглена и си има всичко!
– Тя е руса!
– Не! Червенокоса е!
– Тя е умна и образована!
– Не! Тя е естествена и натурална!
– Тя е...
Обстановката в кръчмата се нажежила и принцовете извадили мечовете си, но тогава Принцът Поет тихо заговорил и след първите, всички наострили уши:
– Тя е влюбена до уши в своя принц. Мисли само за него от сутрин до вечер. Готова е да жертва живота си за своя принц и ще даде и залъка от устата си за него. Не поглежда другите принцове и до смъртта си служи и е вярна само на своя принц. Готова е да се превърне в слугиня и никога не иска нищо в замяна на любовта си. Ако нейния принц се разболее, тя ще стои до леглото му и няма да мигне докато не оздравее. Ако пък принцът загине, животът приключва и за нея.
– Няма такава жена! – изръмжал Дебелият Принц. – Няма и никога няма да има! Всички го знаем, но докато те слушах, нещо трепна в мен. Стори ми се, че я познавам и тя винаги е била някъде близо до мен. Странно! Много странно!
Принцовете отпили от бирите и се замислили дълбоко. Мислили, мислили, мислили и след няколко минути мощен вик огласил кръчмата. Излязъл през вратата, преминал по улиците и се спрял чак пред крепостните стени:
– Но, това е Мама! Той описа Мама!

[Кал]

It is the heavy reality of the writing life which makes the “why” so easy to forget: Gutless rejection letters, denigrating revision letters, incompetent copy edits, insulting reviews, late checks, disappointing sales, down-trending print-runs, shrinking advances, royalties paid in a geological timeframe, imprints folding, publishers downsizing their lists and conglomerating their overhead.
One day your editor expresses all the enthusiasm of an overtired undertaker. The next day your agent demonstrates all the faith and commitment of a diseased streetwalker. Your book is packaged with a cover that would embarrass anyone who wasn’t raised in a Red Light district. You give a thoughtful interview only to discover the resultant article describes you as churning out potboilers. Three people show up at your book signing, two of them because they thought you were someone else; the third person came because you owe him money. When you make the New York Times list, a neighbor asks you “which” NYT list you’re on, because there must be a separate one for the trash you write. Though you’ve been publishing regularly for years, you know people who ask, every single time they see you, if you still write. (No, I fell back on my independent wealth when the going got tough.)

[Кал]

I realize that this is not, like, boyish. I realize that properly speaking guys should only think about sex and the acquisition of it, and that they should run crotch-first toward every girl who likes them and etc. But: The part I enjoy most is not the doing, but the noticing. Noticing the way she smells like oversugared coffee, and the difference between her smile and her photographed smile, and the way she bites her lower lip, and the pale skin of her back. I just want the pleasure of noticing these things at a safe distance—I don’t want to have to acknowledge that I am noticing. I don’t want to talk about it or do stuff about it.

[Кал]

Then on Sunday night while I’m at the computer checking to see if anyone’s online, my dad’s head appears in my doorway. “Will,” he says, “do you have a sec to talk in the living room?” I spin around in the desk chair and stand up. My stomach flips a bit because the living room is the room least likely to be lived in, the room where the nonexistence of Santa is revealed, where grandmothers die, where grades are frowned upon, and where one learns that a man’s station wagon goes inside a woman’s garage, and then exits the garage, and then enters again, and so on until an egg is fertilized, and etc.

[Кал]

Ружа плъзна ръката си край стената, в това време някой извика асансьора, той полетя, и в тъмното изведнъж бликна светлина като огромен конус. Светна електрическата крушка, сложена в телен намордник на тавана, за да не я крадят заселниците в блока. Колективно всички имаха засилено чувство към обществената собственост, но по единично го проявяваха най-своеобразно.