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#330365

You come to expect your friends to drop dead, once you reach a certain age.

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#330366

I couldn’t easily accept the reality of the progression of events. Someone shot at the President... Someone shot the President... Someone shot the President in the head...The President has been critically wounded...The President has been rushed to Parkland Hospital...The President has received the last rites...The President is dead. I was never a particularly political person, but this rupture of the common-wealth devastated me. Kennedy was the only presidential candidate I ever voted for who won, and they killed him: the story of my life in one compressed bloody parable. And now there would be a President Johnson. Could I adapt? I cling to zones of stability. When I was 10 years old and Roosevelt died, Roosevelt who had been President all my life, I tested the unfamiliar syllables of President Truman on my tongue and rejected them at once, telling myself that I would call him President Roosevelt too, for that was what I was accustomed to calling the President. That November afternoon I picked up emanations of fear on all sides as I walked fearfully home. Paranoia was general everywhere. People sidled warily, one shoulder in front of the other, ready to bolt. Pale female faces peered between parted curtains in the windows of the towering apartment houses, high above the silent streets. The drivers of cars looked in all directions at intersections, as if expecting the tanks of the storm troopers to come rumbling down Broadway. (At this time of day it was generally believed that the assassination was the first blow in a right-wing putsch.) No one lingered in the open; everyone hurried toward shelter. Anything might happen now. Packs of wolves might burst out of Riverside Drive. Maddened patriots might launch a pogrom.

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#330367

Бесстрастные сиделки ходят по палате, выказывая к пациентам не больше внимания, чем музейные сторожа к мумиям в витринах. — 25

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#330368

Impassive nurses drift through the room, showing much the same distant concern for the patients as museum guards do for mummies in display cases.

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#330369

Сейчас зима. Небо и мостовые превратились в одинаковую, неразличимую серость. Скоро выпадет снег. … Сейчас царит бетон. Правит тишина. Из проездов выглядывают неподвижно застывшие, словно памятники себе, чёрные и серые кошки. — 26

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#330370

Winter is here. Sky and pavement form a seamless, inexorable band of gray. There will be snow soon. … Only concrete triumphs here. Silence reigns. Scrawny black and gray cats, motionless, statues of themselves, peer out of alleys.

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#330371

Конечно, Торо неудачник с очень серьёзными невротическими проблемами. В молодости, только что закончив колледж, он влюбился в девушку по имени Эллен Севолл, но она его отвергла, и он никогда не женился. Интересно, было ли у него с кем-нибудь это? Вероятно, нет. Я не могу себе представить трахающегося Торо, а вы? О, может он и не умер девственником, но, держу пари, его половая жизнь была паршивой. Возможно он даже не мастурбировал. Разве можно представить его сидящим на берегу пруда и делающим это? Не могу. Бедняга Торо. — 26

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#330372

Как меня все ненавидели за ум! За то, что они принимали за ум. Мое умение с легкостью угадывать, что произойдет. Ну, теперь такой проблемы больше не было бы. Меня бы все любили. Любя меня, они бы оставили от меня мокрое место. — 26

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#330373

How they all hated me for my cleverness! What they interpreted as my cleverness, that is. My sly knack of always guessing what was going to happen. Well, that wouldn’t be a problem now. They’d all love me. Loving me, they’d beat me to a pulp.

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#330374

С возрастом романтические соки иссякают, да? — 26

Умирающий изнутри
#330375

The romantic juices tend to dry up as you get older, eh?

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#330376

Justice. You hear a lot about justice, God’s justice. He looketh after the righteous. He doeth dirt to the ungodly. Justice? Where’s justice? Where’s God, for that matter? Is He really dead, or merely on vacation, or only absent-minded? Look at His justice. He sends a flood to Pakistan. Zap, a million people dead, the adulterer and the virgin both. Justice? Maybe. Maybe the supposedly innocent victims weren’t so innocent after all. Zap, the dedicated nun at the leprosarium gets leprosy and her lips fall off overnight. Justice. Zap, the cathedral that the congregation has been building for the past two hundred years is reduced to rubble by an earthquake the day before Easter. Zap. Zap. God laughs in our faces. This is justice? Where? How? … I’m not protesting, you understand. I’m just asking things, in a quiet, reasonable tone of voice. I’m inquiring into the nature of divine justice. I think Goethe’s old harpist had the right slant on you, God. You lead us forth into life, you let the poor man fall into guilt, and then you leave him to his misery. For all guilt is revenged on earth. That’s a reasonable complaint. You have ultimate power, God, but you refuse to take ultimate responsibility. Is that fair?

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#330377

Снег — это так красиво. Всё укрывает, всё чистит, быстро делая усталый разъединённый город и усталых людей чище. — 26

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#330378

The snow is so beautiful. Covering everything, cleansing everything, briefly purifying this tired eroded city and its tired eroded people.

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#330379

The agent used to bring him to the scene of the climax is a classically Kafkaesque figure—the mysterious “Italian colleague who was on his first visit to the town and had influential connexions that made him important to the Bank.” The theme that runs through all of Kafka’s work, the impossibility of human communication, is repeated here: though Joseph has spent half the night studying Italian in preparation for the visit, and is half asleep in consequence, the stranger speaks an unknown southern dialect which Joseph cannot understand. Then—a crowning comic touch—the stranger shifts to French, but his French is just as difficult to follow, and his bushy mustache foils Joseph’s attempts at lip-reading. Once he reaches the Cathedral, which he has been asked to show to the Italian (who, as we are not surprised to find, never keeps the date), the tension mounts. Joseph wanders through the building, which is empty, dark, cold, lit only by candles flickering far in the distance, while night inexplicably begins fast to fall outside. Then the priest calls to him, and relates the allegory of the Doorkeeper. It is only when the story is ended that we realize we did not at all understand it; far from being the simple tale it had originally seemed to be, it reveals itself as complex and difficult. Joseph and the priest discuss the story at great length, in the manner of a pair of rabbinical scholars disputing a point in the Talmud. Slowly its implications sink in, and we and Joseph see that the light streaming from the door to the Law will not be visible for him until it is too late.

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#330380

Совсем неплохо. … Работа свидетельствует о хорошем уровне ранней интеллигентности, с нужным сочетанием мудреных взглядов и пассивного догматизма,.. — о вышеприведённом сочинении

Умирающий изнутри
#330381

That’s not so bad. … It’s got just the right quality of earnest intelligence, with the proper undergraduate mixture of sophisticated insight and naive dogmatism,..

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#330382

… David Selig, the self-pitying drone of a man … allowing us gradually to understand—it is a slow but perfectly timed understanding—that we are not reading a book about the death pangs of a man with Talent, but a book about the birth pangs of a man. … There is of course one other analogue between the fictional Selig and the real Silverberg. Telepathy, the resistless extractor of needed inside data that Selig remembers, is very similar indeed to the kind of creative capacity Silverberg enjoyed as a writer, for many years. From 1955 until around the time (1967 or so) he began to write great stories and novels, Silverberg himself seemed to have a resistless capacity to extract material from the world and to translate it into words. Selig’s telepathy and Silverberg’s talent were also alike in one other sense: they were traps. They were almost infinitely generous gifts, but with fatal caveats: they did not allow Selig to taste and test the contours of mortal lives, including his own; they did not allow Robert Silverberg to write a book like Dying Inside. … Finally, at the end, he becomes a person capable of writing his story.

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