November 8th, 2003


(no subject)

Если современных итальянцев поспрашивать, кто был лучше – Муссолини или Коза ностра – что они ан масс ответят?

чем заканчивается империя

Чекалинъ усмeхнулся... устало и насмeшливо.
— Ну что-жъ, выпьемъ что ли хоть за непредусмотрeнное. Не останется, вы говорите. Можетъ быть, и не останется... Но если что-нибудь въ исторiи человeчества и останется — такъ отъ насъ, а не отъ васъ. «А вы на землe проживете, какъ черви слeпые живутъ — ни сказокъ про васъ не разскажутъ, ни пeсенъ про васъ не споютъ»...
— Ежели говорить откровенно, такъ насчетъ пeсенъ — мнe въ высокой степени плевать. Будутъ обо мнe пeть пeсни или не будутъ, будутъ строить мнe монументы или не будутъ — мнe рeшительно все равно. Но я знаю, что монументъ — это людей соблазняетъ. Какимъ-то таинственнымъ образомъ, но соблазняетъ. И всякiй норовитъ взгромоздить на свою шею какой-нибудь монументъ. Конечно, жить подъ нимъ не очень удобно — зато монументъ... Но строить его на своей шеe и своей кровью? Чтобы потомъ какая-нибудь скучающая и ужъ совсeмъ безмозглая американка щелкала своимъ кодакомъ сталинскiя пирамиды, построенныя на моихъ костяхъ — это извините...

Иван Солоневич, Россiя въ концлагере

(no subject)

I wouldn't really say that I prefer to sleep
Inhaling strange miasmas to amaze bedbugs,
But I breathe that stuff anyway, because I keep
Nose to the wall, and the wall has rugs.

While I sleep here, the folks below yell and scream,
And hurl plates at each other and against the wall.
Why do they live, I sometimes wonder in my dream,
And find no reason for them at all.

I also muse, while sleeping, that life is noise -
But minor, and accordingly with death to match.
Today is minimum, tomorrow the same or less,
The day after - not even that much.

Now death commands so many of my lines of thought,
That when this figure (in my dream, naturally)
Enters softly, I do not ask who is that,
I know She has come for me.

And I am terrified when she draws near,
All sexy chic a la Paris, ready to pounce,
And whispers seductively in my ear:
Why the trembling, silly? Shall we dance?

Oh beauty, beauty! No matter how you rile us
Still we trail doggedly in your wake,
Knowing full well that the fairest of reptiles
Is a deadly coral snake.

And I fear setting myself up for an ordeal,
But tell me, how often do we get to harbor
Hopes of this lady's visit with a cordial
Invitation to the dance macabre!

Yes we're a couple to end all couples. Showtime!
She's George Sand and I am the Marquis de Sade!
She is airborne like a blown kiss, and I'm
Airborne like paratroopers in descent!

I'll treat you to a dance, so out of my way!
I'll smash your parquetry to smithereens!
And the folks living underneath, why they
Can go on living underneath!

"Watch your limbs!" I shrill, a beastly screech,
And break into a gallop, floors a-thud,
Today's minimum tomorrow is out of reach,
The day after - send down the flood!

But as things reach a crescendo, my lovely guest
And all her rouge and perfume, powder and gloss
With a whistle of flying silks turn to dust
And I am suddenly at a loss...

Then I wake up, mouth sour and textured like peat,
And in someone else's voice, hoarse with belief
I swear to quit smoking, renounce red meat,
And turn a new healthy leaf.

Thereupon I heat pork chops and wolf them down,
Spread noxious cigar smoke through my rooms,
And back to bed, like a ghoul replete with my own
Blood from the bleeding gums...