[Lika_k]

If you shout loud enough, for long enough, a crowd will gather to see what all the noise is about. It's the nature of crowds. They don't stay long, unless you give them reason. You're just as bad as most men, just that aggressive, just that self-aggrandizing, and your hour will come and go.


Michael Cunningham, "Hours" (1998)

@темы: world, 20, w, english-american, author: cunningham, michael

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[Lika_k]

Clarissa will not die, not by her own hand. How could she bear to leave all this?
------------
Someone else will die. It should be a greater mind than Clarissa's; it should be someone with sorrow and genius enough to turn away from the seductions of the world, its cups and its coats.

Michael Cunningham, "Hours" (1998)

@темы: c, literature, 20, w, english-american, english-british, author: cunningham, michael, author: woolf, virginia, libri

---

[Lika_k]

owing nothing to old Aunt Helena, who sits every night in her accustomed chair and wonders aloud whether Plato and Morris are suitable reading for young women.

Michael Cunningham, "Hours" (1998)</b

@темы: c, literature, p, m, 20, english-american, lectio, author: plato, author: cunningham, michael, author: morris, william

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[Lika_k]

Richard, alone among Clarissa's acquaintance, has no essential interest in famous people . Richard genuinely does not recognize such distinctions. It is, Clarissa thinks, some combination of monumental ego and a kind of savantism. Richard cannot imagine a life more interesting or worthwhile than those being lived by his acquaintances and himself, and for that reason one often feels exalted, expanded, in his presence. He is not one of those egotists who miniaturize others. He is the opposite kind of egotist, driven by grandiosity rather than greed, and if he insists on a version of you that is funnier, stranger, more eccentric and profound than you suspect yourself to be — capable of doing more good and more harm in the world than you've ever imagined—it is all but impossible not to believe, at least in his presence and for a while after you've left him, that he alone sees through to your essence, weighs your true qualities (not all of which are necessarily flattering—a certain clumsy, childish rudeness is part of his style), and appreciates you more fully than anyone else ever has. It is only after knowing him for some time that you begin to realize you are, to him , an essentially fictional character, one he has invested with nearly limitless capacities for tragedy and comedy not because that is your true nature but because he, Richard, needs to live in a world peopled by extreme and commanding figures. Some have ended their relations with him rather than continue as figures in the epic poem he is always composing inside his head, the story of his life and passions; but others (Clarissa among them) enjoy the sense of hyperbole he brings to their lives, have come even to depend on it, the way they depend on coffee to wake them up in the mornings and a drink or two to send them off at night.

Michael Cunningham, "Hours" (1998)</b

@темы: c, fiction, reality, imagination, 20, english-american, author: cunningham, michael

---

[Lika_k]

The apartment has, more than anything, an underwater aspect. Clarissa walks through it as she would negotiate the hold of a sunken ship. It would not be entirely surprising if a small school of silver fish darted by in the half-light. These rooms do not seem, in any serious way, to be part of the building in which they happen to occur, and when Clarissa enters and closes behind her the big, creaky door with the four locks (two of them broken ) she feels, always, as if she has passed through a dimensional warp — through the looking glass, as it were; as if the lobby, stairwell, and hallway exist in another realm altogether; another time.

Michael Cunningham, "Hours" (1998)

@темы: c, reality, 20, english-american, author: cunningham, michael

---

[Lika_k]

In the morning heat of June, with the robe whisked away, the chair in its bold new fabric seems surprised to find itself a chair at all.

Michael Cunningham, "Hours" (1998)

@темы: c, reality, 20, english-american, author: cunningham, michael

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[Lika_k]

a park impossibly verdant, green beyond green— a Platonic vision of a park, at once homely and the seat of mystery, implying as parks do that while the old woman in the shawl dozes on the slatted bench something alive and ancient, something neither kind nor unkind, exulting only in continuance, knits together the green world of farms and meadows, forests and parks

Michael Cunningham, "Hours" (1998)

@темы: c, 20, nature, english-american, author: cunningham, michael

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[Lika_k]

" No, " she says, and she turns away from the window with a certain elderly rectitude, holding her armful of flowers just as the ghost of her earlier self, a hundred years ago, would have turned from the rattle and creak of a carriage passing by, full of perfectly dressed picnickers from a distant city.

Michael Cunningham, "Hours" (1998)

@темы: c, 20, english-american, author: cunningham, michael

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[Lika_k]

Clarissa would have been three or four, in a house to which she would never return, about which she retains no recollection except this, utterly distinct, clearer than some things that happened yesterday: a branch tapping at a window as the sound of horns began; as if the tree, being unsettled by wind, had somehow caused the music. It seems that at that moment she began to inhabit the world; to understand the promises implied by an order larger than human happiness, though it contained human happiness along with every other emotion. The branch and the music matter more to her than do all the books in the store window. She wants for Evan and she wants for herself a book that can carry what that singular memory carries.

Michael Cunningham, "Hours" (1998)

@темы: c, happiness, memoria, 20, english-american, author: cunningham, michael

---

[Lika_k]

This determined, abiding fascination is what she thinks of as her soul (an embarrassing, sentimental word, but what else to call it?); the part that might conceivably survive the death of the body.

Michael Cunningham, "Hours" (1998)

@темы: c, 20, english-american, author: cunningham, michael

---

[Lika_k]

The vestibule door opens onto a June morning so fine and scrubbed Clarissa pauses at the threshold as she would at the edge of a pool, watching the turquoise water lapping at the tiles, the liquid nets of sun wavering in the blue depths. As if standing at the edge of a pool she delays for a moment the plunge, the quick membrane of chill, the plain shock of immersion. New York in its racket and stern brown decrepitude, its bottomless decline, always produces a few summer mornings like this; mornings invaded everywhere by an assertion of new life so determined it is almost comic, like a cartoon character that endures endless, hideous punishments and always emerges unburnt, unscarred, ready for more . This June, again, the trees along West Tenth Street have produced perfect little leaves from the squares of dog dirt and discarded wrappers in which they stand. Again the window box of the old woman next door, filled as it always is with faded red plastic geraniums pushed into the dirt, has sprouted a rogue dandelion.

Michael Cunningham, "Hours" (1998)

@темы: c, city, 20, season: summer, new york, english-american, season: spring, author: cunningham, michael

---

[Lika_k]

Here they are, on a day early in the Second World War: the boy and his mother on the bridge, the stick floating over the water's surface, and Virginia's body at the river's bottom, as if she is dreaming of the surface, the stick, the boy and his mother, the sky and the rooks. An olive-drab truck rolls across the bridge, loaded with soldiers in uniform, who wave to the boy who has just thrown the stick. He waves back. He demands that his mother pick him up so he can see the soldiers better; so he will be more visible to them. All this enters the bridge, resounds through its wood and stone, and enters Virginia's body. Her face, pressed sideways to the piling, absorbs it all: the truck and the soldiers, the mother and the child.

Michael Cunningham, "Hours" (1998)

@темы: c, death, war, 20, w, english-american, english-british, author: cunningham, michael, author: woolf, virginia

---

[Lika_k]

That’s what I love about reading: one tiny thing will interest you in a book, and that tiny thing will lead you onto another book, and another bit there will lead you onto a third book. It’s geometrically progressive—all with no end in sight, and for no other reason than sheer enjoyment.

Mary Ann Shaffer & Annie Barrows "The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society", 2008

@темы: s, literature, b, letters, 21, english-american, lectio, author: barrows, annie, author: shaffer, mary ann, libri

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[Lika_k]

The church refused to bury Ammu. On several counts. So Chacko hired a van to transport the body to the electric crematorium. He had her wrapped in a dirty bedsheet and laid out on a stretcher. Rahel thought she looked like a Roman Senator. Et tu, Ammu? she thought and smiled, remembering Estha.

It was odd driving through bright, busy streets with a dead Roman Senator on the floor of the van. It made the blue sky bluer. Outside the van windows, people, like cut-out paper puppets, went on with their paper-puppet lives. Real life was inside the van. Where real death was.

Arundhati Roy "The God of Small Things" (1997)

@темы: indian, death, 20, life, author: roy, arundhati, r

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[Lika_k]

Chacko told the twins that, though he hated to admit it, they were all Anglophiles. They were a family of Anglophiles. Pointed in the wrong direction, trapped outside their own history and unable to retrace their steps-because their footprints had been swept away. He explained to them that history was like an old house at night. With all the lamps lit. And ancestors whispering inside.

“To understand history,” Chacko said, “we have to go inside and listen to what they’re saying. And look at the books and the pictures on the wall. And smell the smells.”

Arundhati Roy "The God of Small Things" (1997)

@темы: indian, history, 20, english-other, author: roy, arundhati, r

---

[Lika_k]

But Cecilia, having learned modern forms of snobbery at Cambridge, considered a man with a degree in chemistry incomplete as a human being. Her very words. She had lolled about for three years at Girton with the kind of books she could equally have read at home—Jane Austen, Dickens, Conrad, all in the library downstairs, in complete sets. How had that pursuit, reading the novels that others took as their leisure, let her think she was superior to anyone else?

Even a chemist had his uses. And this one had found a way of making chocolate out of sugar, chemicals, brown coloring and vegetable oil. And no cocoa butter.

Ian McEwan "Atonement", 2001

@темы: philology, m, :))), 21, english-british, author: mcewan, ian

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[Lika_k]

This was hopeless. In a novel, Adrian wouldn’t just have accepted things as they were put to him. What was the point of having a situation worthy of fiction if the protagonist didn’t behave as he would have done in a book? Adrian should have gone snooping, or saved up his pocket money and employed a private detective; perhaps all four of us should have gone off on a Quest to Discover the Truth. Or would that have been less like literature and too much like a kids’ story?

Julian Barnes "The Sense of an Ending", 2011

@темы: literature, b, reality, 21, english-british, author: barnes, julian

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[Citatus]

This was another of our fears: that Life wouldn’t turn out to be like Literature. Look at our parents—were they the stuff of Literature? At best, they might aspire to the condition of onlookers and bystanders, part of a social backdrop against which real, true, important things could happen. Like what? The things Literature was all about: love, sex, morality, friendship, happiness, suffering, betrayal, adultery, good and evil, heroes and villains, guilt and innocence, ambition, power, justice, revolution, war, fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, the individual against society, success and failure, murder, suicide, death, God. And barn owls. Of course, there were other sorts of literature—theoretical, self-referential, lachrymosely autobiographical—but they were just dry wanks. Real literature was about psychological, emotional and social truth as demonstrated by the actions and reflections of its protagonists; the novel was about character developed over time. That’s what Phil Dixon had told us anyway. And the only person—apart from Robson—whose life so far contained anything remotely novel-worthy was Adrian.

Julian Barnes "The Sense of an Ending", 2011

@темы: poetry, literature, b, reality, 21, english-british, author: barnes, julian

---

[Lika_k]

У дез Эссента не хватило решимости отправиться туда, даже чтобы послушать Берлиоза, хотя тот и восхищал его порывистостью отдельных своих вещей. Прекрасно сознавал дез Эссент и то, что ни сцены, ни фразы из волшебного Вагнера нельзя безнаказанно отделять от целого его оперы.

Куски музыки тогда, когда они были отдельно приготовлены и поданы на блюде концерта, теряли значение и обессмысливались. Ведь вагнеровские мотивы — как главы книги. Они дополняют друг друга, все вместе ведут к общей цели, рисуют характеры персонажей, передают их мысли, объясняют тайные или явные побуждения. Кроме того, причудливый рисунок лейтмотивов доступен слушателю в том случае, если он знает сюжет, помнит, как складывались и развивались образы героев и окружающей их среды, вне которой они зачахнут, ибо связаны с ней, как ветка с деревом.

Помимо прочего, дез Эссент был убежден, что среди бесчисленных меломанов, по воскресеньям умиравших от восторга в зрительном зале, от силы два десятка человек знали партитуру и в тот момент, когда смолкали голоса билетерш и можно было расслышать оркестр, ощущали, насколько она изуродована.

Правда, французские театры из мудрого патриотизма и не ставили великого немца целиком. Стало быть, для тех, кто оказался не посвященным во все музыкальные тайны и не захотел или не смог отправиться на Вагнера в Байрейт, самый лучший выбор был — сидеть дома. Что дез Эссент и выбрал.

Жорис-Карл Гюисманс "Наоборот", 1984

@темы: music, б, francaise, deutsche, opera, on the stage, в, 19, г (rus), author: wagner, richard, author: huysmans, joris-karl, author: berlioz, hector

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[Lika_k]

Покорить дез Эссента мог только такой писатель, у которого ироничный стиль сочетался бы со взглядом на мир вдумчивым и аналитичным. И дез Эссент нашел это сочетание у мэтра индукции: глубокого и странного Эдгара По. С тех пор как дез Эссент взялся за него, тот приносил ему неизменное наслаждение.

По, как никто другой, был ему близок душевно, соответствовал его созерцательному настроению.

Если Бодлер расшифровывал тайнопись мыслей и чувств, то По, как мрачный психолог, скорее изучал человеческую волю.

Он первым в рассказе с символичным названием "Демон извращенности" исследовал неодолимые и неведомые ей самой порывы воли. В наши дни они более или менее полно объяснены церебральной патологией. Он также впервые если не описал, то, по крайней мере, заговорил о парализующем влиянии страха на волю и о том, что обезболивающие средства; притупляют чувствительность, а яд кураре поражает нервно-двигательную функцию. Именно к изучению летаргии воли и свелись все исследования По. Он проанализировал развитие этой нравственной хвори, указал на ее симптомы, сначала легкое беспокойство, потом — сильную" тревогу и, наконец, дикий страх парализующий всякое движение воли, но, однако, не нарушающий работы мозга.

А самой смерти, о которой столь любят говорить поэты, Эдгар По в каком-то смысле придал новые очертания, наделив ее свойством алгебраическим и сверхчеловеческим. Описывал он агонию, правда, не столько физическую, сколько нравственную. Человек мог выжить, но от изнеможения и боли на своем жалком; ложе начинал галлюцинировать. И жестоко, и вместе с тем завораживающе показывал писатель, как нарастает страх и разрушается воля. От его бесстрастных описаний и бредовых кошмаров у читателя леденела кровь и перехватывало дыхание.

Героев По мучили наследственные неврозы и нравственные недуги. Женские персонажи, все эти Мореллы и Лигейи, были в высшей степени образованны, разбирались в хитросплетениях немецкой философии, познали тайны древневосточной каббалистики, и все, словно ангелы, — плоскогруды и бесполы.

Бодлера и По часто уподобляли друг другу. Было у них нечто общее в стиле; оба стремились к изучению пораженного болезнью ума, но при этом решительно отличались в понимании любви. У Бодлера она полна беззакония и противоестественности; ее жестокость и нетерпимость сродни пыткам инквизиции. У Эдгара По любят целомудренно, воздушно; замирают все органы чувств, мозг пребывает в полном уединении, ничто не связывает его с телом, девственным и хладным.

В клетке ума ученый и хирург, Эдгар По занимался анатомией мозга, а когда уставал, то в его воображении, словно сомнамбулические ангелоподобные фигуры, возникали сладкие видения. Эта хирургия служила для дез Эссента неиссякаемым источником догадок и предположений. Однако в последнее время обострился его собственный невроз, и бывали дни, когда это чтение его истощало, и он сидел недвижно и настороженно, с трясущимися руками, охваченный, точно несчастный Ашер, необъяснимым оцепенением и ужасом.

И потому дез Эссент должен был смирять себя и пить опасный эликсир по капле. И уже не мог подолгу бывать в красной гостиной и наслаждаться одилон-редоновскими сумерками и луикеновским изображением пыток.

Однако после страшного американского зелья все остальное казалось дез Эссенту пресным. И тогда он брался за Вилье де Лиль-Адана. В некоторых его сочинениях дез Эссент находил и подлинный бунтарский дух, и мятежную мысль, но они не внушали, за исключением "Клер Ленуар", подлинный ужас.

Жорис-Карл Гюисманс "Наоборот", 1984

@темы: poetry, death, б, francaise, decadence, в, 19, symbolism, romanticism, english-american, г (rus), fin de siecle, author: baudelaire, charles, author: poe, edgar allan, author: villiers de l'isle-adam, Auguste, п