| SUCCUBUS | Дата: Пятница, 17.06.2011, 16:41 | Сообщение # 1 |
 Middle School
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| Cosmopolis. Don Delillo
From Publishers Weekly
DeLillo skates through a day in the life of a brilliant and precocious New Economy billionaire in this monotone 13th novel, a study in big money and affectlessness. As one character remarks, 28-year-old Eric Packer "wants to be one civilization ahead of this one." But on an April day in the year 2000, Eric's fortune and life fall apart. The story tracks him as he traverses Manhattan in his stretch limo. His goal: a haircut at Anthony's, his father's old barber. But on this day his driver has to navigate a presidential visit, an attack by anarchists and a rapper's funeral. Meanwhile, the yen is mounting, destroying Eric's bet against it. The catastrophe liberates Eric's destructive instinct-he shoots another character and increases his bet. Mostly, the action consists of sequences in the back of the limo (where he stages meetings with his doctor, various corporate officers and a New Economy guru) interrupted by various pit stops. He lunches with his wife of 22 days, Elise Shifrin. He has sex with two women, his art consultant and a bodyguard. He is hit in the face with a pie by a protester. He knows he is being stalked, and the novel stages a final convergence between the ex-tycoon and his stalker. DeLillo practically invented the predominant vernacular of the late '90s (the irony, the close reading of consumer goods, the mock complexity of technobabble) in White Noise, but he seems surprisingly disengaged here. His spotlighted New Economy icon, Eric, doesn't work, either as a genius financier (he is all about gadgetry, not exchange-there's no love of the deal in his "frozen heart") or a thinker. The threats posed by the contingencies that he faces cannot lever him out of his recalcitrant one-dimensionality. DeLillo is surely an American master, but this time out, he is doodling.
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WMZ (Z308412489070)
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| SUCCUBUS | Дата: Пятница, 17.06.2011, 17:04 | Сообщение # 2 |
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Middle School
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| Как вы это перевели:
* He did not take long walks into the scrolling dawn. There was no friend he loved enough to harrow with a call.
* He liked spare poems sited minutely in white space, ranks of alphabetic strokes burnt into paper.
* He bypassed sleep and rounded into counterpoise, a moonless calm in which every force is balanced by another.
* He was reading the Special Theory tonight, in English and German, but put the book aside, finally, and lay completely still, trying to summon the will to speak the single word that would turn off the lights. Nothing existed around him.
* The view was across bridges, narrows and sounds and out past the boroughs and toothpaste suburbs into measures of landmass and sky that could only be called the deep distance.
* The bread vans would be crossing the city and a few stray cars out of bedlam weaving down the avenues, speakers pumping heavy sound.
* He watched a hundred gulls trail a wobbling scow downriver.
* He'd been interested once and had mastered the teeming details of bird anatomy. Birds have hollow bones. He mastered the steepest matters in half an afternoon.
* He stood a while longer, watching a single gull lift and ripple in a furl of air, admiring the bird, thinking into it, trying to know the bird, feeling the sturdy earnest beat of its scavenger's ravenous heart.
* A suit subdued the camber of his overdeveloped chest. He liked to work out at night, pulling weighted metal sleds, doing curls and bench presses in stoic repetitions that ate away the day's tumults and compulsions.
* He did this when he felt hesitant and depressed, striding past the lap pool, the card parlor, the gymnasium, past the shark tank and screening room. He stopped at the borzoi pen and talked to his dogs.
* He went back up to the living quarters, walking slowly now, and paused in every room, absorbing what was there, deeply seeing, retaining every fleck of energy in rays and waves.
* The art that hung was mainly color-field and geometric, large canvases that dominated rooms and placed a prayerful hush on the atrium, skylighted, with its high white paintings and trickle fountain. The atrium had the tension and suspense of a towering space that requires pious silence in order to be seen and experienced properly, the mosque of soft footfall and rock doves murmurous in the vaulting.
* The white paintings were unknowable to many, knife-applied slabs of mucoid color
* He felt contiguous with it. It was eighty nine stories, a prime number, in an undistinguished sheath of hazy bronze glass.
* It was nine hundred feet high, the tallest residential tower in the world, a commonplace oblong whose only statement was its size.
* He felt wary, drowsy and insubstantial.
* It belonged to the olden soul of awe, to the arrowed towers that were a narrative long before he was born.
* He knew what he wanted, a haircut, but stood a while longer in the soaring noise of the street and studied the mass and scale of the tower. The one virtue of its surface was to skim and bend the river light and mime the tides of open sky.
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WMZ (Z308412489070)
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| Ceveron | Дата: Четверг, 29.03.2012, 18:42 | Сообщение # 3 |
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Nursery School
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| А здесь что ?
Iнформацiйний портал - Партiя Брехнi - http://opirnarodu.at.ua
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