Книжки - Surfacing
Заполучив книжку Маргарет Атвуд, я обычно прокрастинирую месяцами, не решаюсь начать умное-занудное-выводящее из равновесия чтиво - ведь глупые жестокие триллеры, поп-наука и культурно-близкие индийские романы так уютны. А потом каждый раз оказывается, что ум сильнее занудства - когда автор соображает, его читать приятно даже если он, как на этот раз, пишет зелёно-антиамериканско-феминистическое в рваном стиле проклятых семидесятых. Правда, это всего лишь вторая из больших её книжек, она вышла в 1972. Понятное дело, человек не виноват, что ему пришлось жить и писать в это контр-культурное время, нельзя же было перепрыгнуть прямо в восьмидесятые. Один из этих выводящих из равновесия приёмчиков, кстати - повествование в настоящем времени (о приёмчике читать тут: "Как ныне сбирается").
Героиня Маргарет Атвуд с детства разрушает людям их уют:
There are no dirty words any more, they've been neutered, now they're only parts of speech; but I recall the feeling, puzzled, baffled, when I found out some words were dirty and the rest were clean. The bad ones in French were the religious ones, the worst ones in any language were what they were most afraid of and in English it was the body, that was even scarier than God. You could also say Jeesus Christ, but it meant you were angry or disgusted. I learned about religion the way most children then learned about sex, not in the gutter but in the gravel-and-cement schoolyard, during the winter months of real school. They would cluster in groups, holding each other's mittened hands and whispering. They terrified me by telling me there was a dead man in the sky watching everything I did and I retaliated by explaining where babies come from. Some of their mothers phoned mine to complain, though I think I was more upset than they were: they didn't believe me but I believed them.
Смешно, правда? Только я не верю в поверхностный смысл этого пассажа - издёвку над христианством. Автор, хоть и агностик без больших религиозных симпатий, отлично понимает религиозность. Этот католический постоянный Свидетель и вправду иногда производит неизгладимое впечатление на детей. А главное - автор соображает, такие издёвки должны быть ниже её достоинства. Например, смысл может быть в том, что дети неспособны понять веру, как и секс. А потом, вырастая, постепенно принимают их, с разной степенью успеха и комфорта в каждом. И действительно - вот через пол-книжки косвенное подтверждение:
"Do you love me, that's all," he said. "That's the only thing that matters."
It was the language again, I couldn't use it because it wasn't mine. He must have known what he meant but it was an imprecise word; the Eskimos had fifty-two names for snow because it was important to them, there ought to be as many for love.
"I want to," I said. "I do in a way." I hunted through my brain for any emotion that would coincide with what I'd said. I did want to, but it was like thinking God should exist and not being able to believe.
"Fucking jesus," he said, pulling his hand away, "just yes or no, don't mess around."
Героиня иллюстрирует детскую книжку:
I outline a princess, an ordinary one, emaciated fashion-model torso and infantile face, like those I did for "Favourite Fairy Tales". Earlier they annoyed me, the stories never revealed the essential things about them, such as what they ate or whether their towers and dungeons had bathrooms, it was as though their bodies were pure air. It wasn't Peter Pan's ability to fly that made him incredible for me, it was the lack of an outhouse near his underground burrow. My princess tilts her head: she's gazing up at a bird rising from a nest of flames, wings outspread like a heraldic emblem or a fire insurance trademark: The Tale of the Golden Phoenix.
Опять смешно, да? Но только вот такой девочке смешно не было:
"If you don't do it right we won't play with you," they said. Being socially retarded is like being mentally retarded, it arouses in others disgust and pity and the desire to torment and reform.
Ну почему ей не может просто нравиться розовое, как остальным? Эти лишние мысли только мешают. И во взрослом возрасте то же самое. И соображать - не всегда помогает:
...but logic is a wall, I built it, on the other side is terror.
"Книжки - Маргарет Атвуд"
"Удивительное совпадение - Атвуд и Гош"
Героиня Маргарет Атвуд с детства разрушает людям их уют:
There are no dirty words any more, they've been neutered, now they're only parts of speech; but I recall the feeling, puzzled, baffled, when I found out some words were dirty and the rest were clean. The bad ones in French were the religious ones, the worst ones in any language were what they were most afraid of and in English it was the body, that was even scarier than God. You could also say Jeesus Christ, but it meant you were angry or disgusted. I learned about religion the way most children then learned about sex, not in the gutter but in the gravel-and-cement schoolyard, during the winter months of real school. They would cluster in groups, holding each other's mittened hands and whispering. They terrified me by telling me there was a dead man in the sky watching everything I did and I retaliated by explaining where babies come from. Some of their mothers phoned mine to complain, though I think I was more upset than they were: they didn't believe me but I believed them.
Смешно, правда? Только я не верю в поверхностный смысл этого пассажа - издёвку над христианством. Автор, хоть и агностик без больших религиозных симпатий, отлично понимает религиозность. Этот католический постоянный Свидетель и вправду иногда производит неизгладимое впечатление на детей. А главное - автор соображает, такие издёвки должны быть ниже её достоинства. Например, смысл может быть в том, что дети неспособны понять веру, как и секс. А потом, вырастая, постепенно принимают их, с разной степенью успеха и комфорта в каждом. И действительно - вот через пол-книжки косвенное подтверждение:
"Do you love me, that's all," he said. "That's the only thing that matters."
It was the language again, I couldn't use it because it wasn't mine. He must have known what he meant but it was an imprecise word; the Eskimos had fifty-two names for snow because it was important to them, there ought to be as many for love.
"I want to," I said. "I do in a way." I hunted through my brain for any emotion that would coincide with what I'd said. I did want to, but it was like thinking God should exist and not being able to believe.
"Fucking jesus," he said, pulling his hand away, "just yes or no, don't mess around."
Героиня иллюстрирует детскую книжку:
I outline a princess, an ordinary one, emaciated fashion-model torso and infantile face, like those I did for "Favourite Fairy Tales". Earlier they annoyed me, the stories never revealed the essential things about them, such as what they ate or whether their towers and dungeons had bathrooms, it was as though their bodies were pure air. It wasn't Peter Pan's ability to fly that made him incredible for me, it was the lack of an outhouse near his underground burrow. My princess tilts her head: she's gazing up at a bird rising from a nest of flames, wings outspread like a heraldic emblem or a fire insurance trademark: The Tale of the Golden Phoenix.
Опять смешно, да? Но только вот такой девочке смешно не было:
"If you don't do it right we won't play with you," they said. Being socially retarded is like being mentally retarded, it arouses in others disgust and pity and the desire to torment and reform.
Ну почему ей не может просто нравиться розовое, как остальным? Эти лишние мысли только мешают. И во взрослом возрасте то же самое. И соображать - не всегда помогает:
...but logic is a wall, I built it, on the other side is terror.
"Книжки - Маргарет Атвуд"
"Удивительное совпадение - Атвуд и Гош"