дыбро и про книшку)

[strega verde]

1) проспала весь день и невыразимо щаслива, что сегодня суббота, а не воскресенье, ибо сил нет никаких

2) рада, што никуда не поехала ибо см. пункт 1)

3) скачала аудио- и текстовую версию книшки Макьюэна, которая Atonement, поняла еще раз, что больше люблю четать глазами. Написано необыкновенно, при всей моей любви к чтению "по диагонали" стараюсь четать не торопясь, потому что "как" здесь просто офигенно, оно не затмевает "что", оно его эдак исподволь формирует)) Фильм, кстате, чудесно передает атмосферу. Единственное пока расхождение с фильмом - это Робби. Что-то не очень он похож на МакАвоя. Не снаружи (хотя и снаружи он больше напоминает Фассбендера, бгг), а изнутри)) Другой он тут) Хотя посмотрим, может быть, еще всё сойдётся. Но вообще это не важно - книшка хороша сама по себе, очень хороша.

Кусочек, for aspiring writers)))):

Briony leaned back against a wall and stared unseeingly down the nursery’s length. It was a temptation for her to be magical and dramatic, and to regard what she had witnessed as a tableau mounted for her alone, a special moral for her wrapped in a mystery. But she knew very well that if she had not stood when she did, the scene would still have happened, for it was not about her at all. Only chance had brought her to the window. This was not a fairy tale, this was the real, the adult world in which frogs did not address princesses, and the only messages were the ones that people sent. It was also a temptation to run to Cecilia’s room and demand an explanation. Briony resisted because she wanted to chase in solitude the faint thrill of possibility she had felt before, the elusive excitement at a prospect she was coming close to defining, at least emotionally. The definition would refine itself over the years. She was to concede that she may have attributed more deliberation than was feasible to her thirteen-year-old self. At the time there may have been no precise form of words; in fact, she may have experienced nothing more than impatience to begin writing again.

As she stood in the nursery waiting for her cousins’ return she sensed she could write a scene like the one by the fountain and she could include a hidden observer like herself. She could imagine herself hurrying down now to her bedroom, to a clean block of lined paper and her marbled, Bakelite fountain pen. She could see the simple sentences, the accumulating telepathic symbols, unfurling at the nib’s end. She could write the scene three times over, from three points of view; her excitement was in the prospect of freedom, of being delivered from the cumbrous struggle between good and bad, heroes and villains. None of these three was bad, nor were they particularly good. She need not judge. There did not have to be a moral. She need only show separate minds, as alive as her own, struggling with the idea that other minds were equally alive. It wasn’t only wickedness and scheming that made people unhappy, it was confusion and misunderstanding; above all, it was the failure to grasp the simple truth that other people are as real as you. And only in a story could you enter these different minds and show how they had an equal value. That was the only moral a story need have.

@темы: книги, дыбр

Comments

strega verde, она чудесна, эта книга) и мне даже больше нечего сказать, но она чудесна)

[strega verde]

Fumus,
ага)))