Сега кажи, че си падаш и по Хитлер - само като видя Вагнер и Орф и почва да ми става ясно. Пробвай и с Рихард Щраус, усещам, че би ти харесал.
Хаха, не, не си падам по Хитлер, поне не като идеология. Иначе като външен вид, тържественост и т.н. не мога да отрека, че нацистите определено ме впечатляват. Особено униформите им. Както вика Леми от Моторхед:
I'll tell you something about history. From the beginning of time, the bad guys always had the best uniforms. Napoleon, the Confederates, the Nazis. They all had killer uniforms. I mean, the SS uniform is fucking brilliant! They were the rock stars of that time. What you're gonna do? They just look good.
А Щраус ще го пробвам
Я да те пробвам - ходил ли си на опера? Къде, какво гледа, хареса ли ти? Преди колко време?
Ех, не, на опера не съм ходил. :/
М, сега се сетих - какво мислиш за адаша си? Да не се чудиш за кого те питам - за Супер Любо иде реч.
Супер Любо го намразих, защото е досадно да имаш известен адаш
Готов съм и с дългоочакваният разказ.
Измъчи ме с тези 16 изречения, значи. Опитах, но по-кратко от 19 (повечето от които при това бая дълги) изречения не можах да го направя. И доста избягах от тематиката на Белман и песните му за часовникаря Фредман (на когото даже името му смених, хаха). Има все пак едно намигване към Белман, в лицето на страха от отлитащото време, характерен за барока (нищо, че Белман е представител на рококото), заради който именно, както са ни учили, е много важно, че Фредман е именно пропил се
часовникар, а не просто пиянде някакво.
Нямах предварително намерение да е на английски, но като седнах да пиша и така ми дойде. Не съм го редактирал, така че се извинявам за евентуалните грешки и тоталното ми незачитане на пунктуацията в английския (:
The frantic clatter of two sets of shoes, the one quickly catching up with the other echoed trough the mist creeping over the paved street. Suddenly, right after they passed the clock tower, the clock on which pointed to eleven fifty-eight, silence flooded the night. As if a star glittered when the nearby gas-lamp's pale light caught Erika's eyes. She was gasping for air, her skin cold with sweat, a scream stuck in her throat; but it was not until she felt the stinging blade pierce her skin that the sound of her agony finally burst out. The light in her eyes faded away and so did her last breath, which slowly dissolved in the mist...
Fredric woke up from the sound of his own scream, realizing it had blended with hers. He desperately looked around for a bit of reality, something that could help him shake off the nightmare which still plagued his mind, even though he was awake. The first shape he vaguely distinguished in the dark was that of the skeleton of the large, half-disjointed longcase clock he had been working on for some time. There were clocks and watches all around, but not a sound to be heard, as they were all at a standstill, most of them pointing to significant moments in Fredric's life - his eyes fell on the cartel clock, the hands of which stood at the time of his birth, then to the elegant pocket watch, a gift from Erika, which pointed to the moment when he first met her, precisely one o'clock on a beautiful and distant autumn afternoon. Fredric was obsessed with all the timepieces the room teemed with, and yet the passing time stirred utter dread in him and he could not endure to see them going, whereas the still hands gave him the illusion that the moments they signified were seized in time and were never to fade away. But right now his clocks could not comfort him, in his anxious mind they resembled the tower from his nightmares, so he kept on scouring the room feverishly until his look chanced upon a half-empty bottle of absinthe. The very reason for the nightmares, according to his doctor, now delivered him from the dream world as he took a long gulp, and while the green flames burned through his body his mind cleared a bit and he realized he was in his work-room and recalled yesterday's drunken night, one of many since Erika disappeared. He knew, however, that the doctor was wrong, it was not absinthe that induced his hectic visions, but guilt, the subversive guilt he felt over not seeing her to her home that night, over not being there to redeem her from the doom that had befallen her. What it was he did not know, not a trace was ever found, but his remorse made him dream each night that she was murdered and he was her executioner. He was afraid he was loosing his mind, for the nightmares were getting worse, they were not only about Erika's death any more, he would now often have other ghastly visions as well and with each and every day he had to struggle more to tear himself away from them. He sought asylum in spirits, which in terms made the line between reality and illusion even more obscure and, as a proof of this, he again lost confidence in his own eyes and mind, for he dropped the bottle and when he bent down to pick it up he saw something that could not be real, something that evoke utmost horror in him and caused his face to stiffen in an aghast grimace - it was his personal pocket watch, which he thought he had, by some coincidence lost the night when Erika vanished. That was the watch he used to carry with himself before it disappeared, the one he kept track of time with and the only one that was supposed to be working. But it was not; it's hands were standing still, pointing to eleven fifty-eight.