If you long to sit on the bank of the river,
can see, It sails by the corpse of your enemy.
Given the crazy nature of the below, express all this should be in any language, but not in English. In my case, However, the only option would have been Russian, source of this nonsense which is. But who needs a tautology? Besides, assumptions, I'm going to put forward here, in its turn, also quite delusional, and will therefore be better to limit their outside language, Analytical having reputation. who wants, his insights have been attributed to the vagaries of language, izobiluющego fleksiяmi? to nobody. Besides, really, those, who constantly asks, the language I think and I see dreams. dreams of a man [dream], I reply, and he thinks — thoughts. Language becomes a reality, Only when you solve these things with someone to share. From such a response business, of course, does not move. However, I upryamlyus, Since English is not my mother, and because of his grammar, I know not one hundred percent, my thoughts can be greatly mangled. I, of course, I hope, it will not happen; anyway, I can always tell them apart by their own dreams. And Believe, it or not, dear reader, but just ranting kind, from which is usually of little use, lead us straight to the heart of our story. For matter, how its author decides your dilemma and in what language will stop selection, itself, this ability to the choice makes you suspect, and suspicion — just that, what will be discussed. “But who he is, this author? — perhaps, you ask. — What he was getting at? Could he claim to roles disembodied mind?” But if the, dear reader, only you were intrigued by the personality of the author, it would be more back and forth. The trouble is, that the author himself does not know, who is he, — and for the same reason. “Who are you?” — he asks himself the question in two languages and amazed as you are, hearing, his own voice murmurs in response to something like “but how do I know!” crossbreed, Ladies and Gentlemen! You are drawn hybrid. or centaurs.
Summer 1991 of the year. August. it, at least, for sure. Elizabeth Taylor's eighth time is going to go to the altar, in this case — a simple guy Polish blood. Milwaukee arrested recidivist killer with cannibalistic tendencies: it in the refrigerator, police found three boiled skull. Great Russian beggar hanging out in London, and cameras staring at his empty, so to speak, bowl. The more changes, the more everything is still. As the weather. And all the more tends to stay still, the major changes. How to fizionomiey. Based on this same weather, year could well be 1891. general geography (and in particular, European geography) History leaves few options. The country, especially large, there are only two. or it — strong, or — poor. rice. 1: Russia. rice. 2: Germany. For nearly a century, the first of them wanted to be big and strong (at what cost — not important). Now it was her turn to weaken: to the year 2000 it will be the same, where it was in 1900, and approximately with the same perimeter. There you will and Germany. (Finally came to the descendants of Wotan, what, neighbors drove into debt, conquering them safer and less expensive way, rather than military action.) The major changes, the more everything is still. Yet while the weather is not picked. Face in this sense better. The more they try to survive, the more I. rice. 1: Miss Taylor. rice. 2: Your own. so, summer 1991 of the year. August. How to distinguish a mirror of the daily newspaper?
here, by the way, and a newspaper with a modest pedigree shtreykbreherskoy. more precisely, this — “Literary” named “London Book Review”, I was born a couple of years ago, when London “The Times” and its “literary Supplement” few months on strike. In order not to deprive the public of literary news and the charms of a liberal attitude, was created “le”, which, looking at all, was a success. Ultimately, the issue “The Times” with her “LPT” resumed, but “le” too, to stay afloat — indicating less of a growing variety of readers' tastes, how about the sluggish population explosion. Because I know, man does not write both papers, unless he is the publisher. This is largely a question of budget, but also the attention of the amplitude, or — just loyalty. I, eg, and I do not know, Which of these three factors — I want to believe, that the last — prevented me to buy the latest issue “le” in a small bookstore in Belsayz Park, Where are we with my young friend had wandered down the road to the cinema. budgetary considerations, as well as the ability to concentrate (although in recent years its condition I was very scared) we can immediately exclude: latest release “le” in all its splendor adorned on the counter, and on the cover was a picture of an increase of a postage stamp, clearly national origin. Since, I turned 12 years old, things like delaying my eyes automatically. At brands, in its turn, He was depicted a man with glasses, with a neat parting silver. Above and below the text was, Dialed now fashionable in these parts in Cyrillic: “Soviet spy Kim Philby (1912–1988)”. It was really like Alec Guinness and, can, nemnožko on Trevor Hauérda. I reached into my pocket to get it was bank note, He looked into the eyes of friendly youth-seller and has already set up the vocal cords on civilian clothes “please, you are welcome…”, but then I turned on 90 degrees and went out. I want to emphasize, that this was done without undue haste — I managed to nod to the guy behind the counter (breakwater, changed his mind) and the same for a nod to invite his young girlfriend.
To kill time before the start of the session, we went to the nearest cafe. “What's the matter?” — I asked my young friend fighting, When we sat down at a table. “You look, as…”. I did not interrupt. I knew, what happened with me, and I was even curious, what it looks like from the. “You look, as… You look at… sideways, — she continued uncertainly, haltingly, because English is also not native to it. — Similarly, you can no longer just look at the world, you can not look into the eyes of the world, — Finally she managed to say. — Something like that”, — she added, just in case, to protect yourself from mistakes. well yes, I thought, for others, we are always more real, than for themselves, and vice versa. For why are we here, if not as an object of observation? If the part “this” It looks that way, so, my works -like, probably, and most of humanity — not so bad. For in fact I was very sick, coming right up to the throat wave vomiting. But even if this was a natural reaction, I was struck by the intensity. “What happened? — I queried my young friend. — What's the matter?” And now, dear reader, after our attempts to establish the identity of the author and the time of action, Now it would not hurt to find out, what his audience. Do you remember, dear reader, Who was Kim Philby, and what he had done? If yes, It means you under fifty and means, in a sense,, you have time to go. Consequently, everything, what you hear here, It may not be very important for you — and even less comforting. Your game is played, continue to go nowhere; this whole thing will not change for you. On the other hand, If you've never heard of Kim Philby, then you thirty or so, whole life ahead, and all this — ancient history, from which you no good, no joy — unless you're a fan of spy stories. Well..? Well, what in connection with the author's case? The more that is still unknown, who is he. Can the disembodied mind to rely on real audience? I think, hardly, -And I think: do not care!
Generally, we find our author at the end of the twentieth century and with a nasty taste in the mouth. what, however, be expected, if the mouth fifty. but let's, dear reader, stop clever with each other, let's get down to business. Kim Philby was an Englishman, and he was a spy. He has worked in British intelligence service — in M-15 or M-16, or here and there — what's the difference and who wants to understand all these nuances and acronyms, — but it worked for Russian. Using jargon, he was “mole” — although the jargon that we will not be abused. I'm not a fan of spy stories, not a fan of this genre, and I never was. Neither the thirty, or even fifty. And now explain, why. First of all, espionage provides a good story, but rarely — decent prose. In general, the current flowering of spy genre — a by-product of modernism, with its emphasis on the invoice, which resulted in the literature in almost all European languages became absolutely plotless; This provoked a reaction — unavoidable, but, with a few exceptions, as third-rate. However, dear reader, aesthetic objections hardly so very important for you, is not it? Which in itself defines no less accurately, than a calendar or popular newspaper. Let us then turn to the Ethics — in this case, looking at all, any — expert. I, eg, always considered espionage most stinking of all human activities — probably, primarily because, that I grew up in the country, promoting the interests of which it was impossible for it Natives. For this really have to be a foreigner. That is why, probably, a country so proud of its rubbish, fellow travelers and secret agents, immortalizing them with every imaginable means, stamps, plaques and monuments including. ABOUT, all these Richard Sorge, Pablo Neruda, Hewlett Johnson and other, all this trash our youth! ABOUT, all these films, taken in Estonia and Latvia (for “Western” entourage)! Foreign name and neon sign “Hotel” (always upright, never — horizontally), sometimes — squeaking brakes machine Czech production. The aim was not so much in the pursuit of credibility and creating tension, as in the approval of the correctness of the system by describing the exploits, made for her outside. You scene in a bar with a small jazz band, something in the corner of Laban, the — blonde in a crisp, hue tin, brocade skirt and with a decent nose, positively not Slavic in form. There were also with us and two or three actors, enough and long bony, but the emphasis has always been on a noble aquiline nose. German name sounded better spy, than the French, French — it is better, than the Spanish, Spanish — than Italian (can not, no matter how I try, remember a single Italian, spy on the USSR. Pontecorvo?) English, of course, It was — topper, but a rarity. Anyway, attempts to represent English landscapes or street scenes on the screen was not, because we did not have cars right hand drive. It was a glorious time! But I digress.