Цитатите, които ни промиха

[Кал]

“Get some help and clear this area,” said the gabardine.
“Yes, sir!” said the policeman.
“F.B.I., F.B.I.,” the crowd murmured and there was more sky to look at above her.
She sat up and there was glory in her face. “The saucer talked to me,” she sang.
“You shut up,” said the gabardine. “You’ll have lots of chance to talk later.”
“Yeah, sister,” said the policeman. “My God, this mob could be full of Communists.”
“You shut up, too,” said the gabardine.
Someone in the crowd told someone else a Communist beat up this girl, while someone else was saying she got beat up because she was a Communist.

Напомни ми на „зелена?“-та приказка за Юнаци... (И малко :/.)

[Кал]

На другия ден [след спречкване между двамата] Шишкин се премести в друго училище и Сапожников стана лидер.
Веднага го наобиколиха – да получат указания какво да правят занапред, и да преценят новия лидер.
– Я ми се махайте... – каза Сапожников.
– Ти какво, бе – казаха му. – Какво, бе?
– Мъчно ми е за Шишкин – каза Сапожников.
– Какво ще правим? – попитаха го.
– Че откъде да знам?
Така Сапожников престана да бъде лидер.

[Кал]

Some context: a shy man and a strange woman ("strange" as in "extra-terrestrial") are about to sleep in the same room for the first time.

He hesitated, slid into his sleeping bag after removing only his shoes. There ensued a considerable amount of floundering, ducking, and thumping on the floor, and at last he brought his trousers out, folded as small as possible. He wadded them between the corner of the sleeping bag and the wall as if they were a secret. Then he sat up and took off his shirt. He hung it on the corner of the window sill, lay down, zipped the bag up to his neck, and ostentatiously turned on his side with his face to the wall. “Good night.”
“Good night,” she said. Resignedly she got between the sheets, as indicated by the folded-down corner, pulled up the blanket, porpoised out of her trousers, folded them, brought them out and hid them; removed her shirt, reached out a long arm and hung it on the other corner of the window sill. Did he still have his socks on? He did. She wriggled her toes and slightly desensitized her ankles where the weave pressed them.

[Кал]

– Тя казва, че си добро момче, но дефективно – рече Нюра.
– Коя е тя?
– Лида, библиотекарката. Тя още пее в хора. На фабриката. Ти бил ли си с жена?
– Как да съм бил?
– В леглото с жена бил ли си?
– Колко пъти – каза Сапожников. – Защо?
– Значи, не си бил – каза Нюра. – Утре аз съм нощна смяна, ела. Ще кажа на Лида да дойде да те нахрани.
– Нюра... Нюра?... Какво те прихваща?
– Че какво? Мене поне недей да лъжеш. Да не би да съм ти чужда? Утре, не дай боже, ще те убият и няма да знаеш нищо!
Откровен човек беше Нюра.

[Кал]

Глеб (...) беше висок и около него се трупаха всички. Не говореше много и въпреки че изглеждаше умен, наистина беше умен.

[Кал]

На екрана изскочи някаква балетна двойка. Той беше по трико, а тя – с шалвари. Известно време балерината, разтъпквайки се, обикаляше около партньора си, сякаш се прицелваше. После се засили и скочи върху него. Но той не ѝ се даде, ами я отхвърли ловко. Тя обаче отново се метна върху него и се вкопчи като кърлеж. Тогава той започна да се бори с нея, като се опитваше да се отскубне, но тя не се даваше. Колкото и да я въртеше, да я мяташе и подхвърляше във въздуха, нищо не можа да постигне. Тогава не му остана друго, освен да я вдигне и отнесе зад кулисите, за да я довърши там под воя на медните инструменти и гърма на барабана.

[Кал]

В последните седмици синхроничностите са се наговорили да ме побъркат на тема „пътувания и парадокси във времето“. То не беше Cross†Channel, Life Is Strange, „Градска вещица“, а тия дни и бегемотът в тая сфера, Luv Muv Alternative... И ето на какво попадам снощи:

„Някои твърдят, че великият Сапожников, основоположникът на науките, изкуствата и мисленето от последните хилядолетия, в действителност никога не бил съществувал, че бил измислена фигура. Твърдят го единствено въз основа на това, че всички сведения за него били получени от фрагментите на някаква негова биография, явно скалъпена според хиперкритиците най-рано двеста-триста години след описваните там събития.
За Сапожников трябва да кажем, че дори ако не беше съществувал, би трябвало да си го измислим, хе-хе, както са казали древните.

Скулатий Махома, ученик от 19-и клас на Висшето начално училище на Московска област – 3377 г. от нашата ера

Постскриптум. Аз, както и всички ученици от нашето училище за конен спорт „Сапожников“, съм готов да духна до 1977 година, за да проверя събитията, описани в житието му. И моля специално разрешение за общуване със Сапожников. Понеже съм един от изоставащите ученици, няма никаква опасност да му предам особено ценни сведения от нашето време, тъй като сам бъкел не знам.“

[Кал]

She jumped out from hiding. “You killed me, you son of a bitch!”
The Windigo stopped. As its bulbous red eyes fell on her, it occurred to her that, even though she was dead, there might be fates that could befall her spirit she should probably try to avoid. Swallowing, she stepped back.
But the Windigo made no move toward her. Its voice was a thing of ice cracking in the middle of a frozen lake. “I have eaten your flesh already, child. Your spirit is of no use to me. I need fresh meat and hot blood.” Turning away, it continued through the forest.
“What? That’s it? Take my body, then forget about me?” she yelled after its retreating back. “Obviously a guy,” she muttered.

[Кал]

"I travel and trade extensively. I hear a great deal, I purchase a great deal, and I own a great deal. Perhaps I can make you a great deal."

[Кал]

(...) това, което ме вбесява най-много, когато стане въпрос за зомбита, не е нито очевидната им липса на елементарна хигиена, нито ограниченият им речник, нито просташкият навик да мляскат с отворена уста, пълна със съмнителни тъкани. Ако се дразнех от такива неща, никога не бих могъл да вляза в тексаски ресторант за хамбургери.

(Може би трябваше да спомена, че се имат предвид буквални зомбита. )

[Кал]

The Mello Club was a cramped and crowded bistro in which the ceiling, having heard so many customers ask “How low can you get?” seemed to have accepted the challenge. The lighting was of a dimness to which the human eye could not become accustomed, because of its reluctance to recognize such atrocious color combinations.
The dimness was functional, insofar as the place had a function. It kept the customers in obscurity, so that each customer thought his own disgust was unshared, and therefore remained. It kept the customers’ disgust from reaching the master of ceremonies while he created it. It suited the quality of the air, so that taint did not intrude. In short, a fine, healthy place.

[Кал]

During their subsequent meetings, which were soon and often, Lance confessed and anatomized his passion for her. He even gave her its (the passion’s, of course) biography. It had been born of a book jacket, the one responsible for the only really nice thing ever said about Eloise Michaud in a metropolitan review—“The photo-portrait on the book jacket will move as many books as, say, good writing might. To be honest, however, the picture is worth quite the price of the volume. Miss Michaud is the most scrumptious scrivener ever to set pen to the paper of a book-club contract.”

[erejnion]

- Имам ябълка, която мисли, че е круша - отвърна тя и ми я показа, - и зайче, което си мисли, че е котка. А също и маруля, която мисли, че е маруля.
- Значи тази маруля е умна.
- Едва ли - каза тя и леко изсумтя. - Защо нещо, което е умно, би си помислило, че е маруля?
- Дори ако наистина е маруля? - попитах аз.
- Особено тогава - отвърна тя. - Достатъчно лошо е да си маруля. А е направо ужасно да си мислиш, че си маруля. - Тъжно поклати глава и косата ѝ следваше движението ѝ, сякаш цялата е потопена под вода.

Скрит текст: покажи

малко преди това:

- Здравей, Квоте. - Тя отстъпи назад. - Вониш.
Усмихнах се с най-хубавата си усмивка за деня.
- Здравей, Аури - отвърнах аз. - Миришеш като красиво, младо момиче.
- Така е - доволно се съгласи тя.

Мисля да приватизирам тази реплика, твърде е добра.

[Кал]

Before he left he stood in wonder before a monstrous piece of musical plumbing called an ophicleide which stood, dusty and majestic, in a corner. (While it might be easier on the reader to make this a French horn or a sousaphone—which would answer narrative purposes quite as well—we’re done telling lies here. MacLyle’s real name is concealed, his home town cloaked, and his occupation disguised, and dammit it really was a twelve-keyed, 1824-era, 50-inch, obsolete brass ophicleide.)

Скрит текст: покажи

Редакторски настроените: натрапиха ли ви се двете повторения на първия ред? Или на англоговорящите хич не им пука за такива неща, или авторът е бързал, бързал...

[Кал]

You have to be away a long time, a long way, to miss someone like that, and me, I’d been farther away than anyone ought to be for too long plus six weeks. I kissed her and squeezed her until she yelled for mercy, and when I got to where I realized she was yelling we were clear back to the terrace, the whole length of the apartment away from the door. I guess I was sort of enthusiastic, but as I said … oh, who can say a thing like that and make any sense?

It warms my heart, this one.

[Кал]

“Be a man. Not any old man, not mankind, but manhood. To do this you don’t need to play pro football and grow hair on your chest and seduce every third woman you meet long as she’s female. All you have to do is hunt, fish (or talk sense about ’em as if you had) and go bug-eyed when the girls go by. If a sunset moves you so much you have to express yourself, do it with a grunt and a dirty word. Or you say, ‘That Beethoven, he blows a cool symphony.’ Never champion a real underdog unless it’s a popular type, like a baseball team. Always treat other men as if you were sore at something and will wipe it off on them if they give you the slightest excuse. I mean sore, Louis, not vexed or in a snit. And stay away from women. They have an intuition that’ll find you nine times out of ten. The tenth time she falls for you, and there’s nothing funnier.”
“I think,” Loolyo said after a time, “that you hate human beings.”

[Кал]

“It is an odd language, yours. You speak of passing time as in the Mountains we speak of passing wind. As if it were a thing to be gotten rid of.”

[Кал]

Although the Bookkeeper occasionally took on a brace or two of drifters for special jobs, letting them go afterwards, he liked to keep a half-dozen regulars with him; and there was a vacancy just now, one Farley Moore having succumbed to romance. (That was Conlin’s name for it; actually it was tetanus, contracted after a Rocky Summit housewife, mistaken for a doxie by Moore, removed his ear with an iron skillet.)

[Кал]

And, where at first he had rather admired himself for his cookery, for he was a methodical, meticulous, and, as far as cookbooks were concerned, obedient person, he began slowly to resent the kitchen and even the animal beneath his belt which with such implacability drove him into it. It seemed to him a double burden—that he should have to put in all that time before a meal, and then have nothing ready until he prepared it himself. To do things in order to make lunchtime come seemed ultimately enough, more than enough, for a man to be burdened with. Then to have to do things to make the lunch itself seemed an intolerable injustice.

I empathize with him.

[Кал]

A half hour later Happy was standing by the door looking out, hoping that she might get a glimpse of Hart striding toward her down the dark street. The man she saw reminded her of him. Tall men reminded her of him because he was tall, and short men reminded her of him because he was tall.

[Кал]

Той е малко над три години и ме наблюдава със съдбовно любопитство. Ако намеря биберона му – ще спи, ако не го намеря – няма. Той предпочита да не го намеря. На кое дете му се спи следобед, само че моята задачка е да го приспя. И тъй като той заспива само с биберон, аз нервно отварям всички чекмеджета, местя за пореден път всички възглавнички, надничам в кутии и чаши, няма го. Не може да се изпари, все е някъде, но къде? Това го казвам с толкова отчаян глас, че той преминава на моя страна. Казва: „Виж в Гугъл“. Отначало не разбирам – къде? Той ме води до компютъра, отваря Google и казва, че ето тук се търси всичко.
Той се казва Нико и ми е внук. След две години, когато го карам да спи следобед, ще ми казва: „Бабо, в сърцето ми има десет живота и на нито един не му се спи“, но на три години и няколко месеца се надява да не намеря биберона. Не го намерих и в Гугъл. Тъй и тъй съм пред компютъра, я да си проверя пощата. Пиша паролата. „Няма да стане“, казва Нико. Поглеждам го въпросително. „Пишеш на блъгарски“, казва. Още не може да казва „български“, но разпознава рисунъка на буквите.

[Кал]

Having reached that stage in his career when he could have a personal private washroom in his office, Henry Mellow came out of it and said into the little black box on his desk “Bring your book, please.” Miss Prince acknowledged and entered and said “Eeek.”
“ ‘Ever since the dawn of history,’ ” Henry Mellow dictated, “ ‘mankind has found himself face to face with basic truths that—’ ”
“I am face to face,” said Miss Mellow, “with your pants are down, Mr. Mellow, and you are waving a long piece of toilet paper.”
“Ah yes, I’m coming to that … with basic truths that he cannot see, or does not recognize, or does not understand.’ Are you getting this, Miss Prince?”
“I am getting very upset, Mr. Mellow. Please pull up your pants.”
Mr. Mellow looked at her for a long moment while he put his thoughts on “hold” and tuned them out, and tuned her in, and at last looked down. “Archimedes,” he said, and put his piece of toilet paper down on the desk. Pulling up his pants, he said, “At least I think it was Archimedes. He was taking a bath and when he lay back in it, displacing the water and watching it slop over the sides of the tub, the solution to a problem came to him, about how to determine how much base metal was mixed in with the king’s gold ornaments. He jumped out of the bath and ran naked through the streets shouting Eureka, which means in Greek, ‘I have found it.’ You, Miss Prince, are witnessing such a moment. Or was it Aristotle?”
“It was disgraceful is what it was,” said Miss Prince (...)

[Кал]

The Mellow memo reached the Pentagon by the usual channels, which is to say that a Bureau man, routinely going through the segregated trash from the Mellow offices, found three pages done by a new typist and discarded because of forty-three typographical errors, and was assigned, after they had gone through all the layers of the Bureau to the desk of the Chief himself, to burglarize the Mellow offices and secure photographs of a file copy. He was arrested twice and injured once in the accomplishment of this mission, which was not reported in for some time due to an unavoidable accident: he left the papers in a taxicab after stealing them and it took him three weeks to locate the taxi driver and burglarize him. Meanwhile the memo had been submitted to the Times in the form of a letter, which in turn formed the basis for an editorial; but as usual, appearance of such material in the public media escaped the notice of public and Pentagon alike.

[Кал]

Under the blanket she had improvised from some headlining: “Case, what are you doing?”
“Self-relief. Acceptable alternative to the tingler, according to the manual.”
“Oh. ‘Furtherance of psycho-physiological equilibrium’ under Health, individual, under conditions, emergency.”
“Right.Section—”
“I recall the reference,” she said: one of the few times she had ever interrupted him. “This isn’t an emergency, Case.”
He put his nose out into the chill night air and looked up at the black starless sky. “It isn’t?”
“Not that kind of an emergency.”
“We’ve lost our tingler.”
“So we have.”
“Oh, I see. You are prepared to take care of this for me.”
She said, “Well prepared.”
“I had thought of that,” Case said seriously. “However, it has been a principle with me not to extend my authority into the personal area. That is a presumption.”
“It isn’t a presumption,” she said flatly. “Women, too, need means for the furtherance of psycho-physiological equilibrium.”
“They do?” It wasn’t a denial; he had simply never thought about it. Now that he did, he realized with a flash that it must be so. “How very efficient.”
“Isn’t it.” Then she enveloped him wildly. He was shaken. He knew why she cried out (he was not completely ignorant) but not why she cried. It was as good as any tingler, and he could see that in time it might even be better.

[Кал]

“They won’t take us without a fight,” Will Hawkline said, and he took the meercath heat-thing out of his belt; and wouldn’t you know before I could say another word the door of the compartment crashed open and there stood a meercath guard. Will aimed his weapon and of course nothing happened because I had taken the charges out while he slept. I had neglected, however, to remove one patch of stupidity or his appalling bravery. As the giant meercath opened his mouth to squall, Will Hawkline flung himself across the compartment and shoved the weapon between all those big teeth and into the meercath’s throat. And he didn’t stop with that. With the momentum of his rush he placed a hand on the meercath’s head and vaulted up and around, clamping his legs above and below the meercath’s long snout, forcing its jaws closed. I remembered then that all big lizards, especially the one with long jaws, might have, like a meercath, a bite powerful enough to nip someone my size in two, but the muscles that open the mouth are comparatively weak, and it’s easy to hold the mouth closed. So the guard, scrabbling at Will Hawkline with its clever tiny hands, whimpered and died, and sounded no alarm.
Panting and exultant, Will Hawkline came back. “Help me drag this thing inside.” Well, I helped him. And I thought, how can I tell him, without making him unhappy, that he had just done the worst possible thing he could do? Zados don’t make people unhappy. How could I tell him that if he had let himself be captured, he would have been taken to the commander on the bridge, where we might be able to do something, but that now he has killed a guard, the other guards would bite his silly brave head off? How could I tell him that the most important thing of all was for the Little John not to be discovered, that he couldn’t now be detected except if he were seen, and guards looking for their missing meercath would certainly see him? I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t say it. He was so smiling and proud.
“Will,” I said, trying so hard to be gentle, “See Jonna there.” And when he looked I threw the shield around her and she was gone. He gaped and took a step toward where she had been and I took the shield away. “See Little John Five.” And I threw the shield around Five and then removed it and put it around Will Hawkline. “Will,” I said, “you can see Jonna. You can see me. You can see Five. But they can’t see you. Is that right, Jonna? Five?” They nodded their heads and I took down the shield.
“Why are you talking to me as if I were a child?” Will Hawkline asked, so maybe my gentling did not work as well as I thought it would.
I said, “We are going to use the shield. And I want you to understand that no matter how close you come to anyone, they can’t see you. No matter how much you want to attack one of them, you must not. We are going out there and find a search party searching, and we are going to put Little John Five into some place they have just searched, because he has work to do and they can’t detect him anymore. And then the three of us are going to the bridge where the commander is, and we are going to do it without getting our legs torn off and our heads bitten by them. Do you understand?”
“You’re still talking to me as if I were a child,” said Will Hawkline.
“Well,” I said, “I love children. Let’s go.”

[Кал]

“First of all you got to change your ways. You got to stop wearin’ your education an’ good manners like national flags so everybody knows what you are and where you come from. You got to act dumb, talk dumb but do everything right. Any time you open your mouth it’s an opinion, not a fact. Here’s a secret weapon: always act dumber than you are, and everyone will treat you like a dumb-dumb, an’ you’ll always win. You never read nothin’, you never learned nothin’ but the P.D. book o’ rules. Aside from that you say every stupid thing that comes into your head, as loud as you can. Always remember that there’s only two kinds o’ people you got to worry about—big shots an’ morons. You listen to the big shots an’ you talk to the morons—in moron talk. Never mind in-betweens, the smarts. The big shots got the power an’ the morons got the vote, and that’s a combination the smarts can’t beat, there ain’t enough of ’em.
“All you need now is what they had in the old days—something you can watch for everywhere, on anybody. Once it was books, would you believe? Or certain kinds of meat. Alcohol. Marijuana. Tobacco. Anything, long as most people are users an’ it’s illegal. You an’ your boys are going to frisk-and-search. Stakeout. Infiltrate. The Marias are comin’ out of mothballs, the courts will jam up again. We’re goin’ to have a force again. Proud. Respected. Feared. There’ll be a black market start up. You’ll let it get big an’ smash it for the news cameras. You’re goin’ to be Chief. What’s that?”
Startled again, Perk followed the pointing finger. On a broad windowsill stood a handsome plant with thick, fleshy, sword-shaped leaves. “Wh—oh. Aloe. Aloe vera.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Everybody knows. Everybody’s got some. Cuts, scrapes, fleabites, it stops the pain, stops the itch as soon as you squeeze out the jelly and wipe it on. My roomy, she uses it for a hair rinse, face cream. That brown inside layer, it’ll cure constipation. It cured my—”
“Well don’t stop there.”
“Piles,” said Perk with difficulty.
“Cured my stomach ulcer, too. Sunburn. Scalds, burns, it leaves no blisters. Grows anyplace, indoors or out, likes to be neglected. Pups out in three, four months, stick the pup in another jug an’ you got two. In six months, a dozen. In a year, one hundred. Too bad, but progress always costs.”
“You don’t mean … but—there’s nothing illegal about it!”
“Yet.” The old Chief rocked slowly back and effortfully raised his eyes. “There’s a lot of heavy money don’t like the aloe vera a bunch. It snuck up on ’em; nobody saw it happen. Cosmetics. Pharmaceuticals. Ethical drugs. Doctors. All we need is a medical opinion, it causes infantile sexuality. All we need is a Bible scholar discovers the snake hid it in the Garden. All we need is a DOA with his stomach full of aloe vera infusion. All we need is a little panic an’ aloe’ll pile up in the street like snow; mind you, I know; folks ain’t been scared in a long time now. Then all we need is a Board of Health Condition Red: rotting aloe can cause the plague.”
“You’ll never get a doctor or a priest to—”
The hating eyes opened wide for a terrible moment, and then half closed. “Want to bet?”

[Кал]

The young woman in line ahead of me, her arms heavy with books and a simpering smile stuck on her face, began plying [Lee] Lozowick with question after silly question:
“What does it mean,” she asked, “‘First there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is?’ If you meet the Buddha walking down the road, why should you kill him? What’s it like being married and having consorts, too? Can you all have tantric sex together? Do you still watch television? What’s your favorite movie?”
Some people do not suffer fools gladly, or at all. It impressed me that Lozowick suffered through all of this woman’s questions, answering each to the best of his ability. I thought he had the patience of a stone Buddha. After she had finally finished with him, however, he seemed exhausted. He seemed as if he just wanted to go back to his hotel and go to bed. And so I couldn’t bear to burden him with my own agenda. I caught his gaze, and asked him only a single question: “This guru business can be a pretty hard job, can’t it?”
“Sometimes it can be,” he said.
Then the twinkle returned to his eyes, and he looked at me as if glad that someone really “got” what being a guru was all about: that a guru, even the most patient and enlightened, must finally grow tired of beaming shakti and radiance at all of his spirit–hungry followers. And that their surrendering power to him in exchange for this divine boon demeaned them even as it tempted the guru to become conceited and corrupt. And if I understood that, he seemed to say, then maybe I didn’t need a guru after all—at least not him. I got the impression that if he had been able to do so, he would rather have gone out and gotten a glass of beer.

[Кал]

Late on the second day of our gathering, with the snow deep and cold around Ken [Wilber]’s house, he told us how to think about certain aspects of human behavior. What he said, however, flew in the face of what I knew of anthropology. He had, simply, gotten his facts wrong. As his exposition of a small part of his theory seemed to depend on those facts, I thought that I should point this out, lest he multiply his mistake.
“That’s not how most anthropologists see things,” I said, hoping that he might welcome a different point of view. In college I had minored in anthropology, and I remembered very well the lectures of my favorite professor, Dr. Dennis Van Gerven. “Of course, there can be different interpretations, but—”
“Well, your professor is wrong,” Ken snapped at me. It suddenly grew quiet. I had corrected Ken Wilber in front of a roomful of his admirers, and now Ken was going to correct me. “You’re wrong.”
“I don’t think so,” I told him. “I—”
“Well, you are.”
Very quickly, to my horror, to my embarrassment and everlasting shame, the two of us quickly descended down about twenty stages of development to become like bickering eight–year–old boys:
“No, you’re wrong.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re the one who doesn’t.”
“I don’t?”
“No, if you read—”
“How do you know what I’ve read?”
“I know what you haven’t read because you’re wrong about—”
“You’re the one who’s wrong because—”
So it went for about five or ten horrible minutes. I had instigated an argument I could not possibly win. There I sat in Ken’s living room, playing with his football, by his rules. And Ken Wilber was Ken Wilber, the Einstein of Consciousness.
“This isn’t going anywhere,” I finally said. Many times, during my arguments with Melody, I had voiced a similar concern, even though my pointing out the futility of arguing hadn’t gotten us anywhere, either. “Maybe we can discuss this later, in private.”
I felt furious with Ken. As he stood above his seated guests staring at me, his head glowing in the fire’s light like a full moon, he seemed utterly sure of his superiority in all matters of the spirit and intellect. I remembered what a famous wit had said in a similar circumstance: “I’d gladly give my life for anyone seeking the truth, and I’d gladly murder anyone who claimed to have found it.”

... Както обичам да казвам в такива случаи: „Мъже...“.

(А последната мисъл е и лично моя.)

П.П. Току-що открих, че е на Луис Бунюел.

[Кал]

Свилен я заведе в малък и уютен ресторант, където вечеряха морски деликатеси с бяло вино и опитаха специалитета на заведението – ягодово парфе. Светлината беше приглушена, свиреше тиха музика, на масата между тях гореше алена свещ. След като приключиха, Мая настоя да плати сметката, а той извади малка кадифена кутийка във формата на сърце.  
– Може да бъде годежен пръстен или просто пръстен – както предпочиташ – каза с усмивка. – Знаеш, че те обичам, но искам заедно да решим кога ще е подходящият момент! 
– Подходящият момент е сега! – отвърна тя. – Задай ми въпрос и отговорът ще бъде „да“! 
– О, супер! Въпросът е: „Ще ми дадеш ли назаем три бона?“

[Кал]

Давам си сметка, че постмодернистичната двугласност подлага на големи рискове всяка интерпретация. На много от постмодерните литературни четения никой не дръзва да се засмее, за да не увисне сам и да го вземат за глупак. У Г. Господинов обаче съществуват и несъмнени категорични пародии, макар също да са заметени с лисича опашка. Специално искам да привлека „Хайку за мъже“, защото тук целта е много висока: атакува се пародийно самата природа на класическото хайку, неговата освободена от смисъл структура:

Мъж загърбил пътя
мокри есенни листа
облаче от пара

Фрагментите стоят леки, необвързани, свободни едни от други. Досущ като в японска миниатюра. Пътят, мъжът, листата, парата и облачето левитират отделно-заедно като във вакуумен декаданс. Никаква предикативност, почти пълна безсубектност на текста. Додето не прозреш, че прилагателното в множествено число „мокри“ всъщност е глагол в трето лице единствено число, който очертава силуета на облекчаващия се край пътя мъж. Натежалата от физиологическо натоварване картина разголва амбицията си да пародира жанра в самото му гнездо.
Има миниатюри, които стоят близо да пародийния колаж от популярни словесни фрагменти и в този смисъл те са най-откровено ориентирани към постмодернисткото очакване. Например в „Либидо“:

На лъжата полата е къса
краката ѝ — дълги
Усещам как бавно настръхва
Голата истина