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Книга довольно хорошо написана в виде рассказов старого человека молодому парню, основанных на событиях его реальной жизни, охватывающей период с нача...
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The Rascally Romance (in a single helluva-long letter about a flicking-short life)
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"What has been will be again," says the new translation of the Old Testament, and Vladimir Dahl in his dictionary recorded the same saying in normal, human, language – "radish is no sweeter than a horseradish". But, if I may ask, have all those wisdom pieces helped a single anyone? And when there comes the moment to feel that I don't care a f-f..er..fleck, I let it rip and go with the flow to the ultimate end.
Life is predetermined like a winding mountain road with the drop-off on the right and the cliff-wall on the left, here you go along, repeating step by step the path passed before you, by you who was also "I". Of course, when I recognize a repetition of familiar situations, I try to avoid ugly deeds for which I'll be ashamed painfully. And up till now I, like, have managed to dodge. Or?.
Yes, like, haven't stepped… If only that bitter son of a bitch in my Chinese tent wouldn't unearth something else…
So, here we are – I and the Varanda. It goes to meet the Araks river and I am passing by and on, to the last limit beyond which there's the boundless blue sea and, probably, that, once lost, tiny sailing boat in it…
Something again carries me off to all sorts of epochs and philologies. But this is, after all, a private letter of a father to his daughter, and f-f..er..I mean, fairly didactic too, well… sort of… at certain passages… Seems like it's a high time to wind up already.
…and then the morning of the following day came, and Scheherazade was suffered to live that day also…
And about myself, dear daughter, I may report that the maxim "I know that I know nothing" is not applicable to me, though there were times when I also scattered this particular pearl. Today, however, I have serious doubts about having even so tiny scraps of knowledge. I doubt that I know anything at all, be it even nothing.
"We understand life only by looking back at the past," announced a lover of aphorisms.
Asshole! You will not understand it even when pulled out of the grave and poked into it with your noseless skull!. And no one will ever understand…
There's just one thing beyond any doubt – life is shorter than even the dash between the dates of birth and death. And I do not care that no one cares about my useless wisdom, because I know better than anyone else that after all that was there, after my stupidities and mistakes, after stepping in all sorts of shit, I am not a hair-breadth wiser, I am still the same naive sucker ready to get underway to the unseen Where-Where Mountains. And let the hull is old like hell, the mast all cracks, and this whole nutshell will not survive the nearest storm – ahead, at full tilt! And let another calypso or penelope (what's the difference?) tearing the blouse on her charms, cries out and rushes along the foamy water edge – full ahead!.
I know that the bigger part of the dash is over so, come what may, the final leg would be passed as well, perk up – we’ll prick thru for sure! Like hell will anything stop a hooey-pricker!.
Good-bye, sweetie.
My fatherly hug to you. And, since you are fond of "You" in the plural –
With love,
your daddies: Sehrguey and Nikolayevich.
(…and whichever rumors reach you, stay assured – we lived happily ever after and died on the same day…)
P. S.:
In case you will give birth to a baby-son – look out! And if you notice an excessive interest for paper, or if instead of games in the computer he starts playing with text typing, then wrap him in a white cloth and throw into the fast-running River-Mommy and he'll only say "thank you!" afterward.
P. P. S.:
I almost forgot to warn that any coincidence with the names of real persons is purely accidental and the described events – fictitious because there is no one responsible for the unpredictably weird dreams of another life-long graphomaniac—
thru the night of 20 to 21 August 2007,
on the left bank of the Varanda River…
~ ~ ~
Life is predetermined like a winding mountain road with the drop-off on the right and the cliff-wall on the left, here you go along, repeating step by step the path passed before you, by you who was also "I". Of course, when I recognize a repetition of familiar situations, I try to avoid ugly deeds for which I'll be ashamed painfully. And up till now I, like, have managed to dodge. Or?.
Yes, like, haven't stepped… If only that bitter son of a bitch in my Chinese tent wouldn't unearth something else…
So, here we are – I and the Varanda. It goes to meet the Araks river and I am passing by and on, to the last limit beyond which there's the boundless blue sea and, probably, that, once lost, tiny sailing boat in it…
Something again carries me off to all sorts of epochs and philologies. But this is, after all, a private letter of a father to his daughter, and f-f..er..I mean, fairly didactic too, well… sort of… at certain passages… Seems like it's a high time to wind up already.
…and then the morning of the following day came, and Scheherazade was suffered to live that day also…
And about myself, dear daughter, I may report that the maxim "I know that I know nothing" is not applicable to me, though there were times when I also scattered this particular pearl. Today, however, I have serious doubts about having even so tiny scraps of knowledge. I doubt that I know anything at all, be it even nothing.
"We understand life only by looking back at the past," announced a lover of aphorisms.
Asshole! You will not understand it even when pulled out of the grave and poked into it with your noseless skull!. And no one will ever understand…
There's just one thing beyond any doubt – life is shorter than even the dash between the dates of birth and death. And I do not care that no one cares about my useless wisdom, because I know better than anyone else that after all that was there, after my stupidities and mistakes, after stepping in all sorts of shit, I am not a hair-breadth wiser, I am still the same naive sucker ready to get underway to the unseen Where-Where Mountains. And let the hull is old like hell, the mast all cracks, and this whole nutshell will not survive the nearest storm – ahead, at full tilt! And let another calypso or penelope (what's the difference?) tearing the blouse on her charms, cries out and rushes along the foamy water edge – full ahead!.
I know that the bigger part of the dash is over so, come what may, the final leg would be passed as well, perk up – we’ll prick thru for sure! Like hell will anything stop a hooey-pricker!.
Good-bye, sweetie.
My fatherly hug to you. And, since you are fond of "You" in the plural –
With love,
your daddies: Sehrguey and Nikolayevich.
(…and whichever rumors reach you, stay assured – we lived happily ever after and died on the same day…)
P. S.:
In case you will give birth to a baby-son – look out! And if you notice an excessive interest for paper, or if instead of games in the computer he starts playing with text typing, then wrap him in a white cloth and throw into the fast-running River-Mommy and he'll only say "thank you!" afterward.
P. P. S.:
I almost forgot to warn that any coincidence with the names of real persons is purely accidental and the described events – fictitious because there is no one responsible for the unpredictably weird dreams of another life-long graphomaniac—
thru the night of 20 to 21 August 2007,
on the left bank of the Varanda River…
~ ~ ~
Другие электронные книги автора Сергей Николаевич Огольцов
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Книга довольно хорошо написана в виде рассказов старого человека молодому парню, основанных на событиях его реальной жизни, охватывающей период с нача...
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